GIFT   OF 

MICHAEL  REESE 


\A.  , 


LETTERS   OF 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 


EDITED    BY 

CHARLES  ELIOT  NORTON 


VOLUME  II. 


NEW    YORK 

HARPER    &    BROTHERS    PUBLISHERS 
1894 


Copyright,  1893,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 


An 


V 


CONTENTS  OF  VOL  II 


VI 

1868-1872 

LIFE 

POEMS." — "MY  STUDY  WINDOWS." — "AMONG  MY  BOOKS," 
FIRST  SERIES. — "THE  CATHEDRAL." — VISIT  FROM  THOMAS 
HUGHES. 

LETTERS  TO  C.  E.  NORTON,  R.  W.  EMERSON,  E.  L.  GODKIN,  LES 
LIE  STEPHEN,  J.  B.  THAYER,  W.  D.  HOWELLS,  J.  T.  FIELDS, 
MISS  NORTON,  MISS  CABOT,  T.  B.  ALDRICH,  THOMAS  HUGHES, 
R.  S.  CHILTON,  F.  H.  UNDERWOOD page  I 

VII 

1872-1876 
VISIT     TO     EUROPE  :      ENGLAND,    RESIDENCE     IN     PARIS,    ITALY, 

PARIS,    ENGLAND. — HONORARY    DEGREE    FROM    OXFORD. 

ELEGY  ON  AGASSIZ. — RETURN  TO  ELMWOOD. — RESUMPTION 
OF  PROFESSORIAL  DUTIES. CENTENNIAL  POEMS  AT  CON 
CORD  AND  CAMBRIDGE. "AMONG  MY  BOOKS,"  SECOND 

SERIES.  —  ENTRANCE     INTO     POLITICAL    LIFE. DELEGATE 

TO  THE  NATIONAL  REPUBLICAN  CONVENTION. PRESI 
DENTIAL  ELECTOR. 

LETTERS  TO  MISS  GRACE  NORTON,  GEORGE  PUTNAM,  MISS  NOR 
TON,  THOMAS  HUGHES,  C.  E.  NORTON,  LESLIE  STEPHEN,  E.  L. 
GODKIN,  T.  B.  ALDRICH,  MRS.  L.  A.  STIMSON,  W.  D.  HOWELLS, 

T.   S.   PERRY,   MRS.  ,  J.   W.   FIELD,   R.   S.   CHILTON,   R.   W. 

GILDER,  JOEL  BENTON,  E.  P.  BLISS,  H,  W.  LONGFELLOW  .      8 1 


IV  CONTENTS   OF   VOL.   II 

VIII 

1877-1880 

VISIT   TO    BALTIMORE. APPOINTED    MINISTER   TO    SPAIN. — LIFE 

IN    MADRID. — JOURNEY   IN    SOUTHERN    FRANCE. VISIT   TO 

ATHENS  AND  CONSTANTINOPLE. — ILLNESS  OF  MRS.  LOWELL. 
— TRANSFERRED  TO  LONDON. 

LETTERS  TO  MRS.  ,  J.  B.  THAYER,  C.  E.  NORTON,  F.  J.  CHILD, 

MISS  NORTON,  MRS.  EDWARD  BURNETT,  MISS  GRACE  NORTON, 
THOMAS  HUGHES,  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW,  GEORGE  PUTNAM, 
J.  W.  FIELD,  MRS.  W.  E.  DARWIN,  LESLIE  STEPHEN,  R.  W. 

GILDER page  186 

IX 

1880-1885 

IN  LONDON. — VACATION  TOUR  TO  GERMANY  AND  ITALY. — 
DEATH  OF  MRS.  LOWELL. DEPARTURE  FROM  ENGLAND. 

LETTERS  TO  C.  E.  NORTON,  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW,  MRS.  W.  E. 
DARWIN,  R.  W.  GILDER,  J.  W.  FIELD,  T.  B.  ALDRICH, 
W.  D.  HOWELLS,  F.  J.  CHILD,  J.  B.  THAYER,  GEORGE  PUT 
NAM,  MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD,  O.  W.  HOLMES,  MISS  GRACE 
NORTON 250 

X 

1885-1889 

RETURN  TO  AMERICA.  —  LIFE  IN  SOUTHBOROUGH  AND  BOS 
TON. SUMMER  VISITS  TO  ENGLAND. 

LETTERS  TO  W.  D.  HOWELLS,  C.  E.  NORTON,  R.  W.  GILDER, 
J.  W.  FIELDS,  R.  S.  CHILTON,  MISS  GRACE  NORTON,  THE 
MISSES  LAWRENCE,  MRS.  LESLIE  STEPHEN,  MRS.  EDWARD 
BURNETT,  G.  H.  PALMER,  T.  B.  ALDRICH,  THOMAS  HUGHES, 
MISS  E.  G.  NORTON,  LESLIE  STEPHEN,  MISS  SEDGWICK, 
F.  H.  UNDERWOOD,  MRS.  J.  T.  FIELDS,  MR.  AND  MRS.  S.  WEIR 
MITCHELL,  MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD,  MRS.  W.  E.  DARWIN  .  2Q7 


CONTENTS  OF    VOL.  II  v 

XI 

1889-1891 

RETURN  TO  ELMWOOD.  —  DECLINING  HEALTH.  —  VISIT  FROM 
LESLIE  STEPHEN.  —  THE  END. 

LETTERS  TO  MRS.  LESLIE  STEPHEN,  R.  W.  GILDER,  JOSIAH 
QUINCY,  THE  MISSES  LAWRENCE,  W.  D.  HOWELLS,  THOMAS 
HUGHES,  S.  WEIR  MITCHELL,  MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD,  LESLIE 
STEPHEN,  E.  L.  GODKIN,  MISS  KATE  FIELD,  C.  E.  NORTON, 
MISS  E.  G.  NORTON,  EDWARD  E.  HALE,  MRS.  F.  G.  SHAW,' 
E.  R.  HOAR,  MRS.  EDWARD  BURNETT  ....  page  389 


INDEX 


LETTERS  OF 

JAMES  RUSSELL   LOWELL 


VI 

1868-1872 

LIFE    AT      ELMWOOD.  "  UNDER     THE      WILLOWS     AND    OTHER 

POEMS." "  MY    STUDY    WINDOWS." "  AMONG     MY    BOOKS," 

FIRST    SERIES. "  THE    CATHEDRAL." VISIT    FROM    THOMAS 

HUGHES. 

LETTERS  TO  C.  E.  NORTON,  R.  W.  EMERSON,  E.  L.  GODKIN,  LES 
LIE  STEPHEN,  J.  B.  THAYER,  W.  D.  HOWELLS,  J.  T.  FIELDS, 
MISS  NORTON,  MISS  CABOT,  T.  B.  ALDRICH,  THOMAS  HUGHES, 
R.  S.  CHILTON,  F.  H.  UNDERWOOD. 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Elmwood,  Oct.  7,  1868. 

.  .  .  "  The  summer  is  past,  the  harvest  is  ended,"  and 
I  have  not  yet  written  to  you !  Well,  I  was  resolved  I 
would  not  write  till  the  printers  had  in  their  hands  all 
the  copy  of  my  new  volume  of  old  poems.  And  that 
has  taken  longer  than  I  expected.  I  have  been  Mar- 
thaized  by  many  small  troubles.  But  last  night  I  fairly 
ended  my  work.  ...  I  had  decided  to  put  the  "June 
Idyl"  in  the  forefront  and  call  it  "A  June  Idyl,  and 
Other  Poems."  But  Fields  told  me  that  Whittier's  new 
volume  was  to  be  called  "  A  Summer  Idyl " — so  I  was 
II.— i 


2  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1868 

blocked  there.  Then  I  took  "  Appledore,"  merely  be 
cause  it  was  a  pretty  name,  though  I  did  not  wish  to 
put  that  in  the  van.  So  it  was  all  settled  for  the  second 
time.  Then  I  was  suddenly  moved  to  finish  my  "  Voy 
age  to  Vinland,"  part  of  which,  you  remember,  was  writ 
ten  eighteen  years  ago.  I  meant  to  have  made  it  much 
longer,  but  maybe  it  is  better  as  it  is.  I  clapt  a 
beginning  upon  it,  patched  it  in  the  middle,  and  then 
got  to  what  had  always  been  my  favorite  part  of  the 
plan.  This  was  to  be  a  prophecy  by  Gudrida,  a  woman 
who  went  with  them,  of  the  future  America.  I  have 
written  in  an  unrhymed  alliterated  measure,  in  very 
short  verse  and  stanzas  of  five  lines  each.  It  does  not 
aim  at  following  the  law  of  the  Icelandic  alliterated 
stave,  but  hints  at  it  and  also  at  the  asonante,  without 
being  properly  either.  But  it  runs  well  and  is  melo 
dious,  and  we  think  it  pretty  good  here,  as  does  also 
Howells.  Well,  after  that,  of  course,  I  was  all  for  allit 
eration,  and,  as  I  liked  the  poem,  thought  no  title  so 
good  as  "  The  Voyage  to  Vinland,  and  Other  Poems." 
But  Fields  would  not  hear  of  it,  and  proposed  that  I 
should  rechristen  the  Idyl  "  Elmwood,"  and  name  the 
book  after  that.  But  the  more  I  thought  of  it  the  less 
I  liked  it.  It  was  throwing  my  sanctuary  open  to  the 
public  and  making  a  show-house  of  my  hermitage.  It 
was  indecent.  So  I  fumed  and  worried.  I  was  riled. 
Then  it  occurred  to  me  that  I  had  taken  the  name  of 
"June  Idyl"  as  a  pis-aller,  because  in  my  haste  I  could 
think  of  nothing  else.  Why  not  name  it  over?  So  I 
hit  upon  "  Under  the  Willows,"  and  that  it  is  to  be.  .  .  . 
But  it  is  awfully  depressing  work.  They  call  back  so 


1868]  TO    R.  W.  EMERSON   AND    E.  L.   GODKIN  3 

many  moods,  and  they  are  so  bad.  I  think,  though, 
there  is  a  suggestion  of  something  good  in  them  at 
least,  and  they  are  not  silly.  But  how  much  the  public 
will  stand !  I  sometimes  wonder  they  don't  drive  all 
us  authors  into  a  corner  and  make  a  battue  of  the  whole 
concern  at  once.  .  .  . 

TO   R.  W.  EMERSON 

Elmwood,  Oct.  14,  1868. 

My  dear  Sir, — If  you  had  known  what  a  poem  your 
two  tickets  contained  for  me,  how  much  they  recalled, 
how  many  vanished  faces  of  thirty  years  ago,  how  much 
gratitude  for  all  you  have  been  and  are  to  us  younger 
men  (a  debt  I  always  love  to  acknowledge,  though  I 
can  never  repay  it),  you  would  not  have  dreamed  of 
my  not  being  an  eager  hearer  during  the  whole  course. 
Even  were  I  not  sure  (as  I  always  am  with  you)  of  hav 
ing  what  is  best  in  me  heightened  and  strengthened,  I 
should  go  out  of  loyalty  to  what  has  been  one  of  the 
great  privileges  of  my  life.  I,  for  one, 

"  Obey  the  voice  at  eve  obeyed  at  prime," 

and  you  may  be  sure  of  one  pair  of  ears  in  which  the 
voice  is  always  musical  and  magisterial  too.  .  .  . 
I  am  gratefully  and  affectionately 

Your  liegeman, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   E.  L.  GODKIN 

Elmwood,  Nov.  20,  1868. 

.  .  .  The  cause  you  advocate  in  the  Nation  is  not 
specially  American — it  is  that  of  honest  men  every- 


4  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1868 

where,  and  acknowledges  no  limits  of  nationality.  And 
let  me  say  for  your  comfort,  that  while  I  have  heard 
the  criticism  of  the  Nation  objected  to  as  ill-natured 
(though  I  naturally  don't  think  it  so),  I  have  never 
heard  its  political  writing  spoken  of  but  with  praise. 
The  other  day  at  a  dinner-table  some  of  its  criticisms 
were  assailed,  and  I  said  that  I  might  be  suspected  of 
partiality  if  I  defended  them  (though  I  think  I  am  not 
[open  to  the  charge]  ),  but  that  "  I  deliberately  thought 
that  its  discussions  of  politics  had  done  more  good  and 
influenced  opinion  more  than  any  other  agency,  or  all 
others  combined,  in  the  country."  This,  so  far  as  I 
could  judge,  was  unanimously  assented  to.  At  any 
rate,  one  of  my  antagonists  agreed  with  me  entirely, 
and  no  one  else  dissented.  The  criticisms  in  the  Nation 
often  strike  me  as  admirable.  I  sometimes  dissent,  but 
I  am  getting  old  and  good-natured,  and  know,  more 
over,  how  hard  it  is  to  write  well,  to  come  even  any 
where  near  one's  own  standard  of  good  writing.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  For  my  own  part  I  am  not  only  thankful  for  the 
Nation,  but  continually  wonder  how  you  are  able  to 
make  so  excellent  a  paper  with  your  material.  I  have 
been  an  editor  and  know  how  hard  it  is.  ... 

I  had  forgotten  the  financial  question.  I  insist  on 
my  own  view  of  it.  I  shall  write  from  time  to  time  till 
I  think  we  are  square.  What  Fields  pays  me,  I  doubt 
if  anybody  else  would.  He  has  always  been  truly  gen 
erous  in  his  dealings  with  me.  If  you  feel  any  scruples, 
you  can  make  matters  even  by  sending  the  Nation  for 
a  year  to  John  B.  Minor,  Professor  in  the  University  of 
Virginia,  Charlottesville.  Accident  has  lately  put  me 


1868]  TO    LESLIE   STEPHEN  5 

in  correspondence  with  him  and  given  me  a  strong  feel 
ing  of  respect  for  his  character.  He  lost  everything  by 
the  war,  but  was  and  is  a  Union  man,  though  he  went 
with  his  State.  I  have  often  wished  the  Nation  might 
have  some  circulation  at  the  South,  and  here  is  a  good 
chance  to  get  at  one  sensible  man  there  at  any  rate.  I 
don't  wish  him  to  know  where  it  comes  from.  Perhaps 
it  would  be  better  to  send  him  a  number  now  and  then 
at  first,  till  he  got  used  to  it,  omitting  numbers  that 
might  startle  his  natural  prejudices  in  any  way.  I 
think  it  would  do  good.  I  confess  to  a  strong  sym 
pathy  with  men  who  sacrificed  everything  even  to  a 
bad  cause  which  they  could  see  only  the  good  side  of ; 
and,  now  the  war  is  over,  I  see  no  way  to  heal  the  old 
wounds  but  by  frankly  admitting  this  and  acting  upon 
it.  We  can  never  reconstruct  the  South  except  through 
its  own  leading  men,  nor  ever  hope  to  have  them  on 
our  side  till  we  make  it  for  their  interest  and  com 
patible  with  their  honor  to  be  so.  At  this  moment  in 
Virginia,  the  oath  required  by  the  new  Constitution 
makes  it  impossible  to  get  a  decent  magistrate.  .  .  . 

TO    LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Elm  wood,  Thanksgiving  Day,  1868. 

My  dear  Stephen, — I  hope  that  while  I  am  writing 
this,  with  my  pipe  in  my  mouth,  you  and  Mrs.  Stephen 
are  not  suffering  those  agonies  that  come  from  being 
rocked  in  the  cradle  of  the  deep.  You  are  wallowing 
along  through  this  dreary  rain  towards  drearier  Halifax, 
and  I  wish  instead  you  were  going  to  eat  turkey  with 
us.  I  am  truly  glad  to  hear  that  Mrs.  Stephen  is  so 


6  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1868 

much  better,  and  that  she  could  find  something  to  like 
among  us.  I  don't  wonder  that  she  thought  America 
dull,  if  she  judged  it  by  Elmwood.  It  was  dull,  but  I 
couldn't  help  it,  for  I  am  as  stupid  as  a  public  dinner. 
A  host  should  have  nothing  on  his  mind. 

Had  I  known  where,  I  should  have  sent  you  my  book. 
You  will  get  it  before  long  in  London,  and  may  like  it 
as  little  as  you  please,  if  you  will  keep  on  liking  me. 

M was  delighted  with  her  gift  from  England,  and 

has  written  to  say  so.  She  was  especially  pleased  to 
get  a  package  from  London  addressed  to  herself  and 
not  to  my  care.  I  immediately  seized  the  last  volume 
(which  I  had  not  read)  and  went  through  it  before  I 
"  retired,"  as  Mrs.  Stowe  would  say.  I  was  amazingly 
taken  with  it,  and  am  not  ashamed  to  confess  that  I 
blubbered  over  "  Beauty  and  the  Beast,"  and  gulped 
my  heart  down  several  times  in  "  Little  Red  Riding- 
hood."  I  am  no  great  judge,  but  the  book  struck  me 
as  simply  delightful,  which,  after  all,  is  something  of  a 
literary  merit.  As  for  Mabel,  her  conceit  is  intolerable. 
The  books  stand  on  her  shelves,  and  when  her  young 
friends  come  to  see  her  she  turns  the  conversation 
adroitly  upon  Miss  Thackeray,  and  then  exhibits  her 
prize.  I  gave  her  my  book,  and  she  has  not  read  it 
yet.  At  so  low  an  ebb  is  taste  in  a  democracy!  I 
begin  to  suspect  an  immoral  tendency  in  "  The  Story 
of  Elizabeth." 

I  was  very  much  amused  with  your  picture  of  those 
wretched  British  swells  in  Washington.  If  it  is  dull  dur 
ing  the  recess,  what  must  it  be  when  Congress  gathers 
into  one  focus  the  united  rays  of  boredom  from  every 


1 868]  TO    LESLIE    STEPHEN  7 

corner  of  the  country?  I  am  thankful  that  we  can  re 
venge  ourselves  on  part  of  the  British  race  for  the  wrongs 
of  the  Alabama.  You  gave  us  the  heroic  Semmes,  and 
we  let  loose  Sumner  upon  your  embassy.  I  was  not 
sorry  you  should  say  a  kind  word  for  poor  old  Johnson. 
I  have  never  thought  so  ill  of  him  as  becomes  an  ortho 
dox  Republican.  The  worst  of  him  was  that  he  meant 
well.  As  for  Chase,  he  is  a  weak  man  with  an  imposing 
presence  —  a  most  unhappy  combination,  of  which  the 
world  has  not  wanted  examples  from  Saul  and  Pompey 
down.  Such  men  as  infallibly  make  mischief  as  they 
defraud  expectation.  If  you  write  about  American  poli 
tics,  remember  that  Grant  has  always  chosen  able  lieu 
tenants.  My  own  opinion  is  (I  give  it  for  what  it  is 
worth),  that  the  extreme  Republicans  will  be  wofully  dis 
appointed  in  Grant.  At  any  rate,  if  he  should  throw 
away  his  opportunity  to  be  an  independent  President,  he 
is  not  the  man  I  take  him  to  be.  No  man  ever  had  a 
better  chance  to  be  a  great  magistrate  than  he.  If  he 
shouldn't  prove  to  be  one — well,  a  democracy  can  bear  a 
great  deal.  .  .  . 

It  is  raining  drearily  to-day,  but  my  sister  and  a  nephew 
and  niece  and  Rowse  are  to  keep  festival  with  me,  and  I 
shall  be  quite  patriarchal.  It  is  by  such  fetches  that  I 
supply  the  want  of  grandchildren.  However,  I  have  grand- 
nephews,  and  so  am  a  kind  of  grandfather  by  brevet. 

1870,  my  dear  boy,  is  a  far  cry,  but  I  shall  look  for 
ward  to  it  as  the  bringer  of  good  gifts,  if  it  bring  you 
back  to  me.  You  know  the  way  to  my  door  and  my 
heart,  and  won't  stupidly  go  to  the  Tremont  House 
again.  Perhaps  I  shall  keep  a  coach  by  that  time,  who 


8  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1868 

knows?  Give  our  kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Stephen,  and 
be  sure  that,  whatever  happens,  it  will  never  come  to 
pass  that  I  am  not  heartily  and  affectionately 

Yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   JAMES   B.    THAYER 

Elmwood,  Dec.  8,  1868. 

My  dear  Sir, — I  have  never  meddled  with  any  criti 
cism  of  what  I  write,  nor  am  I  very  sensitive  about  it, 
having  long  ago  made  up  my  mind  that  whatever  was 
good  would  make  its  own  way  at  last.  But  how  could 
I  be  other  than  pleased  with  your  "  notice "  of  my 
book  in  the  Daily  Advertiser?  It  was  sympathetic, 
and  what  more  could  one  ask?  A  criticism  meant  to 
be  friendly  would  be  resented  by  a  man  of  self-respect 
as  an  alms.  I  enclose  you  one  of  a  kind  I  am  used 
to,*  and  leave  you  to  guess  whether  I  ought  not  to 
be  thankful  for  such  as  yours.  I  was  pleased  that  you 
should  remember  some  old  verses  of  mine,  which  I  also 
think  better  of  than  I  commonly  do  of  what  I  have 
written — that  about  the  bobolink,  for  example. 

Perhaps  you  thought  I  shouldn't  like  what  you  said 
about  Mr.  Emerson?  Not  a  bit  of  it!  I  am  and  always 

*  This  was  the  notice  enclosed : — "  Under  the  Willows,  and 
Other  Poems."  By  James  Russell  Lowell,  pp.  viii.,  286.  Boston  : 
Fields,  Osgood  &  Co. 

"  An  introductory  note  to  this  work  informs  us  that  no  collec 
tion  of  Mr.  Lowell's  poems  has  been  made  since  1848.  All  but 
two  of  the  shortest  which  appear  here  have  been  printed  before, 
either  in  whole  or  part,  the  greater  number  having  been  published 
more  than  fifteen  years  ago.  The  author's  taste  and  scholarship 
will  find  attentive  readers  for  all  he  writes,  whether  prose  or 
poetry." 


1868]  TO   JAMES    B.   THAYER  9 

shall  be  grateful  for  what  I  owe  him,  and  glad  to  ac 
knowledge  it  on  all  occasions.  As  for  originality,  I  have 
read  too  much  not  to  know  that  it  is  never  absolute, 
and  that  it  will  always  take  care  of  itself.  When  a  man 
begins  to  be  touchy  about  it,  he  has  already  lost  what 
little  he  ever  had.  One  might  as  well  take  out  a  patent 
for  the  cut  of  his  jib,  when  those  who  remember  the 
family  know  perfectly  well  that  his  grandfather  invent 
ed  it  for  him. 

I  don't  agree  with  you  about  "weariless."  In  lan 
guage  one  should  be  nice  but  not  difficult.  In  poetry, 
especially,  something  must  be  "  pardoned  to  the  spirit 
of  liberty."  I  thought  of  the  objection  when  I  was  cor 
recting  my  proofs,  and  let  the  word  pass  deliberately. 
Shakespeare  has  "viewless"  and  "woundless";  "tire 
less  "  is  not  without  authority  ('spite  of  the  double-enten- 
dre);  and  I  remember  "soundless  sea"  somewhere  or 
other.  I  think  the  form  is  utterly  indefensible,  but 
good  nevertheless. 

I  don't  know  how  to  answer  your  queries  about  my 
"  Ode."  I  guess  I  am  right,  for  it  was  matter  of  pure 
instinct— except  the  strophe  you  quote,  which  I  added 
for  balance  both  of  measure  and  thought.  I  am  not 
sure  if  I  understand  what  you  say  about  the  tenth  stro 
phe.  You  will  observe  that  it  leads  naturally  to  the 
eleventh,  and  that  I  there  justify  a  certain  narrowness 
in  it  as  an  expression  of  the  popular  feeling  as  well  as 
my  own.  I  confess  I  have  never  got  over  the  feeling  of 
wrath  with  which  (just  after  the  death  of  my  nephew 
Willie)  I  read  in  an  English  paper  that  nothing  was  to 
be  hoped  of  an  army  officered  by  tailors'  apprentices 


10  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1868 

and  butcher-boys.  The  poem  was  written  with  a  vehe 
ment  speed,  which  I  thought  I  had  lost  in  the  skirts  of 
my  professor's  gown.  Till  within  two  days  of  the  cele 
bration  I  was  hopelessly  dumb,  and  then  it  all  came 
with  a  rush,  literally  making  me  lean  (ini  fece  magro), 
and  so  nervous  that  I  was  weeks  in  getting  over  it.  I 
was  longer  in  getting  the  new  (eleventh)  strophe  to  my 
mind  than  in  writing  the  rest  of  the  poem.  In  that  I 
hardly  changed  a  word,  and  it  was  so  undeliberate  that 
I  did  not  find  out  till  after  it  was  printed  that  some  of 
the  verses  lacked  corresponding  rhymes.  All  the  "  War 
Poems  "  were  improvisations,  as  it  were.  My  blood  was 
up,  and  you  would  hardly  believe  me  if  I  were  to  tell 
how  few  hours  intervened  between  conception  and  com 
pletion,  even  in  so  long  a  one  as  "  Mason  and  Slidell." 
So  I  have  a  kind  of  faith  that  the  "  Ode  "  is  right  be 
cause  it  was  there,  I  hardly  knew  how.  I  doubt  you  are 
right  in  wishing  it  more  historical.  But  then  I  could  not 
have  written  it.  I  had  put  the  ethical  and  political  view 
so  often  in  prose  that  I  was  weary  of  it.  The  motives 
of  the  war?  I  had  impatiently  argued  them  again  and 
again — but  for  an  ode  they  must  be  in  the  blood  and 
not  the  memory.  One  of  my  great  defects  (I  have 
always  been  conscious  of  it)  is  an  impatience  of  mind 
which  makes  me  contemptuously  indifferent  about  argu 
ing  matters  that  have  once  become  convictions. 

It  bothers  me  sometimes  in  writing  verses.  The  germ 
of  a  poem  (the  idee-mere)  is  always  delightful  to  me,  but 
I  have  no  pleasure  in  working  it  up.  I  carry  them  in 
my  head  sometimes  for  years  before  they  insist  on  be 
ing  written.  You  will  find  some  verses  of  mine  in  the 


1868]  TO   JAMES    B.   THAYER  II 

next  Atlantic*  the  conception  of  which  tickles  me — but 
half  spoiled  (and  in  verse  half  is  more  than  whole)  in  the 
writing.  But  what  can  a  poor  devil  do  who  must  gather 
a  stick  here  and  another  there  to  keep  the  domestic  pot 
a-boiling?  My  eggs  take  long  in  hatching,  because  I 
need  to  brood  a  good  while — and  if  one  is  called  away 
from  the  nest  long  enough  to  let  it  grow  cold  ? 

And  the  "  Nooning."  Sure  enough,  where  is  it  ?  The 
"June  Idyl"  (written  in  '51  or  '52)  is  a  part  of  what  I 
had  written  as  the  induction  to  it.  The  description  of 
spring  in  one  of  the  "  Biglow  Papers  "  is  another  frag 
ment  of  the  same,  tagged  with  rhyme  for  the  nonce.  So 
is  a  passage  in  "  Mason  and  Slidell,"  beginning  "  Oh, 
strange  new  world."  The  "  Voyage  to  Vinland,"  the 
"  Pictures  from  Appledore,"  and  "  Fitz-Adam's  Story  " 
were  written  for  the  "  Nooning,"  as  originally  planned. 
So,  you  see,  I  had  made  some  progress.  Perhaps  it  will 
come  by  and  by — not  in  the  shape  I  meant  at  first,  for 
something  broke  my  life  in  two,  and  I  cannot  piece  it 
together  again.  Besides,  the  Muse  asks  all  of  a  man, 
and  for  many  years  I  have  been  unable  to  give  myself 
up  as  I  would.  You  will  have  noticed  that  many  of 
the  poems  in  my  book  are  moody — perhaps  unhealthy 
,(I  hope  you  may  never  have  reason  to  like  "  After  the 
Burial "  better  than  you  do),  and  I  was  mainly  induced 
to  print  them  that  I  might  get  rid  of  them  by  shutting 
them  between  two  covers.  Perhaps  I  am  not  very 
clear,  but  I  know  what  I  mean. 

I  meant  to  have  written  you  a  note,  but,  enticed  by 

*  "  The  Flying  Dutchman." 


12  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1868 

your  friendly  warmth,  I  have  expatiated  into  a  letter. 
Forgive  me,  and  set  it  down  to  your  own  friendly 
warmth.  It  will  be  a  warning  to  you  in  future.  Mean 
while,  it  is  some  consolation  that  I  am  cheating  dear 
Gurney,  for  I  ought  to  be  doing  the  politics  of  the  next 
North  American  Review. 

I  remain  very  cordially  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

P.  S.  Since  this  was  written  (for  it  was  written  last 
Sunday,  and  I  have  rewritten  it  to  get  rid  of  some  too 
expansive  passages)  Motley  has  given  me  the  beginning 
of  one  of  my  poems,  which  I  had  lost.  I  thought  you 
might  like  to  have  it,  so  I  copy  it  on  the  next  leaf  that 
you  may  paste  it  in  before  the  poem  called  "  A  Mood," 
where  it  belongs.  Hamilton  Wild  wrote  it  down  for 
Motley  from  memory,  and  as  it  has  stuck  in  his  head 
so  many  years  I  think  it  must  have  some  good  in  it. 
I  rather  like  it  myself.  I  found  the  poem  as  it  stands 
in  an  old  note-book.  I  knew  that  it  had  been  printed 
(part  of  it),  and  that  it  did  not  begin  rightly — but  could 
not  remember  where  to  look  for  it. 

I  go  to  the  ridge  in  the  forest 

Which  I  haunted  in  days  gone  by ; 
But  thou,  O  Memory,  pourest 

No  magical  drop  in  mine  eye, 
Nor  the  gleam  of  the  secret  restorest 

That  has  faded  from  woodland  and  sky. 
A  presence  more  sad  and  sober 

Invests  the  rock  and  the  tree ; 
And  the  aureole  of  October 

Lights  the  maples,  but  darkens  me. 


1 868]  TO    JAMES   T.   FIELDS  13 

TO  J.   T.  FIELDS 

Elmwood,  Dec.  20,  1868. 

My  dear  Fields, —  ...  I  read  your  advertisement  in 
the  Nation,  and  discovered  with  some  surprise  what  a 
remarkable  person  I  was.  It  is  lucky  for  Dante  and 
them  fellers  that  they  got  their  chance  so  early.  I  hope 
I  shall  still  be  able  to  meet  my  friends  on  an  easy  foot 
ing.  I  trust  I  can  unbend  without  too  painful  an  air  of 
condescension.  But  make  the  most  of  me,  my  dear 
Fields,  while  you  have  me.  I  begin  to  fear  an  untimely 
death.  Such  rare  apparitions  are  apt  to  vanish  as  unex 
pectedly  as  they  come.  There  is  no  life-insurance  for 
these  immortals.  They  have  their  length  of  days  on 
t'other  side.  For  my  part  I  don't  understand  how  Bryant 
holds  out  so  long.  Yet  it  was  pleasant  to  see  him  re 
newing  his  youth  like  the  eagles,  in  that  fine  poem 
about  the  trees.  He  deserves  to  have  a  tree  planted 
over  his  grave,  which  I  wouldn't  say  of  many  men.  A 
cord  of  wood  should  be  a  better  monument  for  most. 
There  was  a  very  high  air  about  those  verses,  a  tone 
of  the  best  poetic  society,  that  was  very  delightful. 
Tell  Mrs.  Fields  that  I  think  they  justify  his  portrait. 

Your  January  Atlantic  was  excellent.  O.  W.  H.  never 
wrote  more  to  my  mind,  so  genial,  so  playfully  tender. 
And  Howells.  Barring  a  turn  of  phrase  here  and  there, 
I  think  that  as  good  a  thing  as  you  ever  printed.*  It 
had  the  uncommon  merit  of  being  interesting.  That 
boy  will  know  how  to  write  if  he  goes  on,  and  then  we 
old  fellows  will  have  to  look  about  us.  His  notice  (I 

*  A  paper  entitled  "  Gnadenhiitten." 


14  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

suppose  it  was  his)  of  Longfellow's  book  was  a  master 
piece  of  delicate  handling.  How  fair  it  was,  and  yet 
what  a  kindly  discretion  in  turning  all  good  points  to  the 
light !  Give  my  love  to  him,  and  tell  him  I  miss  him 
much.  Also,  in  noticing  my  book,  to  forget  his  friend 
ship,  and  deal  honestly  with  me  like  a  man. 

With  kind  regards  to  Mrs.  Fields  and  a  merry  Xmas 
to  both  of  you  (you  have  made  more  than  one  of  mine 

merrier  before  now), 

Yours  ever, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO   E.  L.  GODKIN 

Elmwood,  New  Year,  1869. 

My  dear  Godkin, — Thinking  you  might  not  otherwise 
see  it,  I  enclose  you  a  paragraph  from  an  harangue  of  Miss 
Dickinson's  at  the  Boston  Music  Hall  last  night — 3 1st 
December.  I  don't  send  it  because  you  will  care  for 
what  she  says  about  the  Nation — which  is  weak  enough 
— but  because  it  will  give  you  a  chance  to  say  a  timely 
word  on  an  important  subject.  This  theory  of  settling 
things  by  what  anybody  may  choose  to  consider  "  hu 
manity,"  instead  of  trying  to  find  out  how  they  may  be 
settled  by  knowledge,  is  a  fallacy  too  common  in  this 
country.  When  one  recollects  that  the  Scythians  (who 
ever  they  were)  used  to  eat  their  grandfathers  out  of 
humanity,  one  gets  a  little  shy  of  trusting  himself  to  it 
altogether,  especially  as  one  grows  older.  It  is  awful 
to  contemplate — and  yet  profoundly  instructive — that, 
when  we  talk  of  the  "  moral  nature  of  man,"  we  mean 
the  disposition  that  has  been  bred  in  him  by  habit — that 
is,  by  respect  for  the  opinion  of  others  become  a  habit : 


1869]  TO    E.   L.   GODKIN  15 

,  mores,  mceurs,  costumbri,  costumi,  sitte  (connected,  I 


suppose,  with  the  suet  in  suetus)  —  it  is  so  in  all  tongues. 
One  must  swallow  the  truth,  though  it  makes  one's  eyes 
water.  Nor  does  this  hinder  one  from  believing  in  the 
higher  Reason,  as  I  for  one  firmly  do.  We  have  an  in 
stinct  to  prefer  the  good,  other  things  being  equal,  and 
in  exact  proportion  to  our  culture  we  know  better  what 
is  good,  and  prefer  it  more  habitually. 

For  your  guidance,  I  add  that  there  were  some  very 
good  points  in  the  lecture  —  better,  indeed,  than  I  ex 
pected.  But  it  is  very  droll  to  me  that  Miss  Dickinson 
shouldn't  see  that  her  "  humanity  "  style  of  setting  things 
right  (by  instinct,  namely)  is  the  very  shillelah  method  she 
condemns  so  savagely  in  the  Irish.  Is  it  not  ? 

The  Nation  continues  to  be  a  great  comfort  to  me.  I 
agree  so  entirely  with  most  of  its  opinions  that  I  begin 
to  have  no  small  conceit  of  my  own  wisdom.  You  have 
made  yourself  a  Power  (with  a  big  p),  my  dear  Fellow, 
and  have  done  it  honestly  by  honest  work,  courage,  and 

impartiality.  .  .  . 

Yours  always, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO    THE    SAME 

Elmwood,  Jan.  8,  1869. 

My  dear  Godkin,  —  Don't  think  I  have  gone  mad  that 
I  so  pepper  you  with  letters  —  I  have  a  reason,  as  you 
will  see  presently.  But  in  the  first  place  let  me  thank 
you  for  the  article  on  Miss  Dickinson,  which  was  just 
what  I  wanted  and  expected,  for  (excuse  me)  you  preach 
the  best  lay-sermons  I  know  of.  I  know  it  is  a  weak 
ness  and  all  that,  but  I  was  born  with  an  impulse  to 


1 6  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

tell  people  when  I  like  them  and  what  they  do,  and  I 
look  upon  you  as  a  great  public  benefactor.  I  sit 
under  your  preaching  every  week  with  indescribable 
satisfaction,  and  know  just  how  young  women  feel  tow 
ards  their  parson— but  let  Mrs.  Godkin  take  courage,  I 
can't  marry  you !  .  .  . 

My  interest  in  the  Nation  is  one  of  gratitude,  and 
has  nothing  to  do  with  my  friendship  for  you.  I  am 
sure,  from  what  I  hear  said  against  you,  that  you  are 
doing  great  good  and  that  you  are  respected.  I  may 
be  wrong,  but  I  sincerely  believe  you  have  raised  the 
tone  of  the  American  press. 

I  don't  want  to  pay  for  the  Nation  myself.  I  take  a 
certain  satisfaction  in  the  large  F.  on  the  address  of  my 
copy.  It  is  the  only  thing  for  which  I  was  ever  dead 
headed.  But  I  wish  to  do  something  in  return.  So  I 
enclose  my  check  for  $25,  and  wish  you  to  send  the  pa 
per  to  five  places  where  it  will  do  most  good  to  others 
and  to  itself.  Find  out  five  College  reading-rooms,  and 
send  it  to  them  for  a  year.  Those  who  read  it  will  want 
to  keep  on  reading  it.  I  can  think  of  no  wiser  plan. 
Send  one  to  the  University  of  Virginia  and  one  to 
the  College  of  South  Carolina.  One,  perhaps,  would  do 
good  if  sent  to  Paul  H.  Hayne,  Augusta,  Georgia.  He 
was  a  rebel  colonel,  I  believe,  but  is  in  a  good  frame 
of  mind,  if  I  may  judge  from  what  he  has  written  to 
me.  .  .  . 

TO  W.  D.  HOWELLS 

Elrnwood,  Under  the  Rain,  1869. 
My  dear  Boy,  —  You  know  very  well  that   I   would 


1869]  TO   J.  T.  FIELDS  If 

rather  have  you  fond  of  me  than  write  the  best  essay 
that  ever  Montaigne  conceived  as  he  paced  to  and  fro  in 
that  bleak  book-room  of  his.  But  for  all  that,  I  am 
grateful  for  what  you  say,  since  a  gray  beard  brings  self- 
distrust — at  least  in  my  case,  who  never  had  any  great 
confidence  in  anything  but  Truth. 

But  what  I  write  this  for  is  only  to  say  that  to  be  sure 
I  knew  who  the  "  young  Vermont  sculptor  "  was,*  and 
pleased  myself  with  alluding  to  him  for  your  sake ;  for 
when  my  heart  is  warm  towards  any  one  I  like  all  about 
him,  and  this  is  why  I  am  so  bad  (or  so  good)  a  critic, 
just  as  you  choose  to  take  it.  If  women  only  knew  how 
much  woman  there  is  in  me,  they  would  forgive  all  my 
heresies  on  the  woman-question  —  I  mean,  they  would  if 
they  were  not  women. 

But  then  I  am  a  good  critic  about  one  thing,  and  I 
see  how  you  have  mixed  me  and  my  essay.  Why,  I 
was  thinking  only  this  morning  that  if  I  could  have  you 
to  lecture  to  I  could  discourse  with  great  good-luck,  for 
you  always  bring  me  a  reinforcement  of  spirits. 

Well,  whatever  happens,  you  can't  be  sorry  that  I 
thought  so  much  of  you  as  I  do. 

With  kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Howells, 

Always  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO   J.  T.  FIELDS 

Elmwood,  March  23,  1869. 

My  dear  Fields, — I  don't  see  why  the  New  York  poets 
should  have  all  the  sonnets  to  themselves,  nor  why 

*  Mr.  Larkin  G.  Mead,  the  brother-in-law  of  Mr.  Howells. 
II.— 2 


l8  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

we  shouldn't  be  littery,,  now  and  then  as  well  as  they. 
With  the  help  of  Walker's  "Rhyming  Dictionary" 
and  Lempriere,  I  have  hammered  out  fourteen  lines 
to  you,  which  I  honestly  think  are  as  much  like  Shake 
speare's  sonnets  as  some  others  I  have  seen.  Your 
name  does  not  consent  so  kindly  to  an  invocation  as 
Stoddard  or  Taylor  or  Boker  or  Richard  or  Bayard, 
which,  albeit  trochees,  may  well  displace  an  iambus 
in  the  first  foot. 

"  Richard,  thy  verse  that  like  molasses  runs,"  launch 
es  your  sonnet  without  a  hitch.  I  tried  at  first  to  evade 
the  difficulty  by  beginning  boldly, 

James  T.,  the  year,  in  its  revolving  round, 
Hath  brought  once  more  the  tributary  pig — 

but  it  wants  that  classical  turn  which  lends  grace  to 
your  true  sonnets  as  shaped  by  the  great  masters  in  this 
kind  of  writing.  So  I  have  hit  on  another  expedient, 
which  I  think  will  serve  the  turn.  As  I  find  some  of 
my  critics  blame  me  as  too  scholarly  and  obscure  be 
cause  I  use  such  words  as  microcosm — which  send  even 
well-read  men  to  their  dictionaries  —  I  have  added  a 
few  notes : 

Poseidon1  Fields,  who  dost  the2  Atlantic*  sway, 

Making  it  swell,  or  flattening  at  thy  will ! 

O  glaucous*  one,  be  thou  propitious  still 

To  me,  a  minnum5  dandled  on  thy  spray!6 

Eftsoons7  a  milk-white  porkerlet8  we  slay. 

No  sweeter  e'er  repaid  Eumceus' 9  skill ; 

A  blameless  Lamb10  thereon  might  feed  his  fill, 

Deeming  he  cropped  the  new-sprung  herb11  of  May. 


1869]  TO    J.  T.  FIELDS  19 

Our  board  do  thou  and  Amphitrite"  grace; 

Archbishop13  of  our  literary  sea, 

Lay  by  thy  trident-crozier  for  a  space, 

And  try  our  forks ;  or,  earless M  to  our  plea, 

Let  this  appease  thee  and  the  frown  displace  : 

The  Gurneys  come  and  John15 — then  answer,  Out!™ 

I  "  Poseidon,"  a  fabulous  deity,  called  by  the  Latins  Neptunus  ;  here 
applied  to  Fields  as  presiding  over  the  issues  of  the  Atlantic. 

5  "  the  Atlantic,"  to  be  read  "  th'  Atlantic,"  in  order  to  avoid  the  hiatus 
or  gap  where  two  vowels  come  together.  Authority  for  this  will  be  found 
in  Milton  and  other  poets. 

3  "Atlantic"  a  well-known  literary  magazine. 

4  "  Glaucus,"  between  blue  and  green,  an  epithet  of  Poseidon,  and  an 
editor  who  shows  greenness  is  sure  to  look  blue  in  consequence. 

5  "  Minnum,"  vulgo  pro  minnow,  utpote  species  minima  piscium. 

6  "  Dandled  on  thy  spray." — A  striking  figure.     Horace  has  piscium  et 
summa  genus  haesit  ulmo,  but  the  poverty  of  the  Latin  did  not  allow  this 
sport  of  fancy  with  the  double  meaning  of  the  word  spray. 

7  "Eftsoons." — This  word  (I  think}  may  be  found  in  Spenser.     It  means 
soon  after,  i.  e.,  before  long. 

8  "  Porkerlet,"  a  pretty  French  diminutive,  as  in  roitelet. 

9  "  Eumaeus,"  the  swineherd  of  Ulysses,  a  character  in  Homer. 

10  "  Lamb,"  a  well-known  literary  character  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
chiefly  remembered  for  having  burnt  his  house  to  roast  a  favorite  pig.     He 
invented  mint-sauce. 

II  "Herb" — grass. — Borrow  a  Bible,  and  you  will  find  the  word  thus 
used  in  that  once  popular  work. 

12  "  Amphitrite,"  the  beautiful  spouse  of  Poseidon. 

13  "Archbishop."— This  is  the  Elizabethan  style.     (N.  B.,  the  play  is 
upon  sea  and  see.)     This  term  is  beautifully,  may  I  not  say  piously,  appro 
priate,  since  the  Grecian  gods  have  all  been  replaced  by  Christian  saints, 
and  St.  Anthony  of  Padua  converted  the  finny  nomads  of  the  deep.     He 
found  a  ready  herring,  I  suppose. 

14  "  Earless." — This  is  not  to  be  taken  literally,  as  in  the  case  of  Defoe, 
or  as  Hotspur  misinterprets  Glendower's  "  bootless."  It  means  simply  deaf. 

15  "John." — It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that  there  is  but  one  John — 
to  wit,  J.  Holmes,  Esq.,  of  Holmes  Place. 

!6  "  Out,"  a  neat  transition  to  the  French  tongue,  conveying  at  once  a 
compliment  to  the  learning  of  the  person  addressed  and  an  allusion  to  his 
editorial  position.  Editors  and  kings  always  say  We. 


20  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

There !  I  think  I  have  made  that  clear  enough  ex 
cept  in  one  particular,  namely,  its  meaning.  I  don't 
admit  that  a  sonnet  needs  anything  so  vulgar — but  this 
one  means  that  I  want  you  and  Mrs.  Fields  to  eat  a 
tithe-pig  ('tis  an  offering  of  William's)  with  us  in  about 
ten  days  from  now.  I  will  fix  the  day  as  soon  as  I  find 
out  when  the  fairy  creature  will  be  ripe. 

I  have  corrected  nearly  all  of  one  volume,  and  dreary 
work  it  is.  I  know  nothing  more  depressing  than  to 
look  one's  old  poems  in  the  face.  If  Rousseau's  brats 
had  come  back  upon  his  hands  from  the  Enfans  Trouvts, 
he  would  have  felt  just  as  I  do. 

Always  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO   THE   SAME 

Elmwood,  April  i,  1869. 

My  dear  Fields, — The  late  Governor  Gore,  of  pious 
memory,  having  issued  his  proclamation  for  a  fast,  in 
continently  thereafter  sent  out  invitations  for  a  dinner 
upon  the  same  day,  and  thereby  lost  as  much  credit  for 
piety  as  he  gained  praise  for  hospitality.  As  a  politician, 
the  balance  was  clearly  against  him  in  a  community 
whose  belief  in  immortality  was  not  based  upon  mate 
rial  nutriment.  But  as  a  man,  it  may  be  suspected  that 
he  lost  nothing  except  in  the  opinion  of  those  who  were 
not  invited.  If  Governor  Claflin  (if  I  am  right  in  the 
name  of  our  present  illustrious  chief  magistrate)  had 
known  that  my  pig  would  have  been  exactly  ripe  on 
the  8th  day  of  April,  and  that  twenty-four  hours  (not 
to  speak  of  forty -eight)  would  convert  him  into  vulgar 
pork,  he  would  have  doubtless  chosen  another  occasion 


1869]  TO   J.  T.   FIELDS  21 

for  proving  his  devotion  to  the  principles  of  our  Puritan 
forefathers.  That  sense  of  culinary  propriety  which  led 
Moses  to  forbid  the  seething  of  a  kid  in  its  mother's 
milk  would  have  induced  him  to  spare  my  suckling  the 
vulgarization  of  a  single  day  longer  amid  the  multitu 
dinous  temptations  of  the  sty.  Fancy  that  object  of 
our  tender  solicitude  exposed,  like  Eve,  to  the  solicita 
tion  of  an  apple,  still  worse  of  some  obscener  vegetable! 
I  will  not  even  suggest  a  turnip,  for  that  were  too  hor 
rible.  Even  an  unbeliever  in  the  literal  inspiration  of 
Scripture  would  reject  such  an  hypothesis  with  disgust. 
Deeply  revolving  these  things,  and  also  the  fact  that  Gur- 
ney  can't  come  either  on  Wednesday  or  Friday,  I  must 
fix  on  Thursday  next  as  the  day  of  consummation. 

Those  who  have  read  the  excellent  Claflin's  proclama 
tion  (I  have  not)  can  take  their  measures  accordingly. 
They  can  deny  themselves  the  second  helping.  They 
can  leave  a  bit  of  untasted  cracklin  on  their  plates,  or, 
defying  the  wrath  of  an  offended  deity  with  a  tant  de 
bruit  pour  une  omelette,  they  can  eat  their  fill.  At  any 
rate,  Thursday  the  8th  is  the  day  —  if  I  have  a  house 
over  my  head. 

I  say  this  because  we  have  been  April-fooled  with  an 
alarm  of  fire  to-day.  The  house  was  thick  with  smoke 
to  the  coughing-point,  and  I  sent  for  a  carpenter  to  rip 
up  here  and  there.  We  were  undoubtedly  afire,  but, 
thank  God,  we  went  out.  It  was  not  pleasant  while  it 
lasted,  but  Vulcan  showed  a  consideration  I  can't  thank 
him  too  much  for  in  coming  by  daylight.  But  fancy 
seeing  smoke  come  up  through  the  chinks  of  your  gar 
ret-floor  in  a  house  like  this !  Yet  this  we  saw.  I  con- 


22  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

fess  I  expected  to  spend  the  night  at  my  sister's  in  Rox- 
bury,  and  even  now  I  am  almost  afraid  to  go  to  bed  lest 
it  may  begin  again.  I  had  a  vision  of  our  two  chimneys 
standing  like  the  ruins  of  Persepolis. 

Therefore,  if  we  don't  burn  down,  we  shall  expect  you 
on  Thursday ;  and  if  we  do,  why,  then  we  will  invite  our 
selves  to  dine  with  you. 

Yours  always, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO    THE    SAME 

Elmwood,  April  5,  1869. 

My  dear  Fields, — If  it  had  been  as  hard  for  Eve  to  eat 
her  apple  as  for  me  to  get  my  pig  eaten,  we  should  all 
be  at  this  moment  enjoying  an  income  of  a  million  a 
minute  and  our  expenses  paid — with  roast  pig  growing 
on  every  bush.  The  Greeks  thought  a  great  man  strug 
gling  with  the  storms  of  fate  the  sublimest  spectacle 
offered  to  mortal  eyes;  but  if  CEdipus  begging  a  meal's 
meat  be  an  awful  sight,  is  there  not  even  something 
more  pathetic  in  the  case  of  him  who  strives  in  vain  to 
give  away  a  dinner?  The  pleasure  of  eating  roast  pig 
on  Fast  Day,  in  such  company  as  I  reckoned  on,  could 
only  have  been  increased  by  adding  a  stray  Jew  to  our 
commensals.  But,  alas,  "  What  is  this  life  ?  What  asken 
man  to  have?"  Our  cook  is  gone!  And  though  Le- 
nore's  mother  said  many  sensible  things  to  console  her 
for  a  far  lighter  loss — that  of  a  dragoon — yet  the  answer 
was  conclusive, 

"  O  Mutter,  Mutter,  hin  ist  kin  /" 
If  hin  isn't  hin,  what  is?     In  short,  we  must  postpone 


1869]  TO  MISS  NORTON  23 

our  dinner.  That  pig,  like  Hawthorne's  youth  asleep  by 
the  fountain,  will  never  know  how  near  Fate  came  to 
him  and  passed  on. 

I  hope  by  Thursday  week  to  have  supplied  the  place 
of  the  delinquent — perhaps  to  our  common  advantage. 
Mary  was  a  cook  merely  by  a  brevet  conferred  by  her 
self,  and  I  doubt  whether  she  had  the  genius  for  that 
more  transcendental  touch  which  such  a  subject  of  un- 
fallen  innocence  demands.  The  little  creature  might 
have  been  heathenishly  sacrificed  instead  of  being  served 
up  with  that  delicacy  which  befits  Xtians.  In  such 
cases,  a  turn  more  or  a  turn  less  may  lose  all,  and  one 
who  might  afterwards  have  grown  up  into  a  learned  pig 
(who  knows  but  into  a  Professor !)  is  cut  off  untimely  to 
no  good  purpose.  Let  us  hope  for  the  best — let  us  hope 
that  if  we  can't  have  him,  the  world  may  gain  a  Bacon 
or  a  Hogg  or  a  Pig-ault  Lebrun.  If  we  get  a  cook — 
and  we  already  hear  of  one  —  our  festival  is  but  pro 
rogued  ;  luckily,  he  will  not  be  too  old,  even  with  an 
added  week.  I  shall  send  word  at  once,  so  think  of  a 
dinner  being  put  off  because  there  won't  be  a  death  in 
the  family  !  My  heart  feels  like  a  pig  of  lead  ; 

But  I  am  always  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

Don't  think  I  have  had  a  paralysis ;  I  have  only 
bought  a  gold  pen. 

TO   MISS  NORTON 

Elmwood,  April  6,  1869. 

.  .  .  Authors,  my  altogether  dear  woman,  can't  write 
letters.  At  best  they  squeeze  out  an  essay  now  and 


24  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

then,  burying  every  natural  sprout  in  a  dry  and  dreaiy 
sand-flood,  as  unlike  as  possible  to  those  delightful  fresh 
ets  with  which  your  heart  overflows  the  paper.  They 
are  thinking  of  their  punctuation,  of  crossing  their  t's 
and  dotting  their  i's,  and  cannot  forget  themselves  in 
their  correspondent,  which  I  take  to  be  the  true  recipe 
for  a  letter.  .  .  .  Now,  you  know  that  the  main  excel 
lence  of  Cambridge  is  that  nothing  ever  happens  there. 
Since  the  founding  of  the  College,  in  1636,  there  has 
been,  properly  speaking,  no  event  till  J.  H.  began  to 
build  his  shops  on  the  parsonage-lot.  .  .  .  Elmwood  is 
Cambridge  at  the  fifth  power,  and  indeed  one  of  the 
great  merits  of  the  country  is  that  it  narcotizes  instead 
of  stimulating.  Even  Voltaire,  who  had  wit  at  will, 
found  Ferney  an  opiate,  and  is  forced  to  apologize  to 
his  cleverest  correspondent,  Mme.  du  Deffand  (do  you 
remark  the  adroitness  of  the  compliment  in  my  italicized 
pronoun?)  for  the  prolonged  gaps,  or  yawns,  in  his  let 
ter-writing.  Cowper,  a  first-rate  epistolizer,  was  some 
times  driven  to  the  wall  in  the  same  way.  There  is 
something  more  than  mere  vacancy,  there  is  a  deep 
principle  of  human  nature,  in  the  first  question  of  man 
to  man  when  they  meet  —  "What  is  the  news?"  A 
hermit  has  none.  I  fancy  if  I  were  suddenly  snatched 
away  to  London,  my  brain  would  prickle  all  over,  as  a 
foot  that  has  been  asleep  when  the  blood  starts  in  it 
again.  Books  are  good  dry  forage  ;  we  can  keep  alive  on 
them  ;  but,  after  all,  men  are  the  only  fresh  pasture.  .  .  . 

We  have  had  a  very  long  winter  with  very  little  snow. 
It  is  still  cold,  but  the  birds  are  come,  and  the  impa 
tient  lovers  among  them  insist  on  its  being  spring.  I 


1869]  TO    LESLIE  STEPHEN  25 

heard  a  bluebird  several  weeks  ago,  but  the  next  day 
came  six  inches  of  snow.  The  sparrows  were  the  first 
persistent  singers,  and  yesterday  the  robins  were  loud. 
I  have  no  doubt  the  pines  at  Shady  Hill  are  all  a-creak 
with  blackbirds  by  this  time.  .  .  . 

I  have  nothing  else  in  the  way  of  novelty,  except  an 
expedient  I  hit  upon  for  my  hens  who  were  backward 
with  their  eggs.  On  rainy  days  I  set  William  to  read 
ing  aloud  to  them  the  Lay-sermons  of  Coleridge,  and 
the  effect  was  magical.  Whether  their  consciences  were 
touched  or  they  wished  to  escape  the  preaching,  I  know 
not.  .  .  . 

TO   LESLIE   STEPHEN 

April  24,  1869. 

My  dear  Stephen, — By  what  system  of  mnemonics 
you  contrived  to  remember  those  melon-seeds,  I  can't 
conjecture.  I  was  glad  to  find  that  they  were  "  Queen 
Anne's  pocket-melons,"  because  I  was  a  subject  of  her 
most  gracious  majesty.  I  had  not  then  established  my 
independence.  It  pleased  me  also  to  have  the  fruit  as 
sociated  with  some  definite  name.  The  former  vague 
ness  evaporated  imagination  (as  Dr.  Johnson  might  say) 
into  a  mere  mist  of  conjecture.  Now  I  can  fancy  Miss 
Hyde's  august  daughter  pacing  the  gardens  at  Ken 
sington,  her  pockets  graced  with  the  fruit  which  bore 
her  name,  and  giving  one  to  Harley  or  Bolingbroke 
or  whatever  purse-proud  aristocrat  happened  to  be  the 
moment's  favorite. 

Within  an  hour  after  the  seeds  arrived  they  were  in 
the  ground,  and  already  I  watch  with  an  almost  paternal 


26  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

solicitude  the  gradual  expansion  of  their  leaves.  Thus 
far  they  are  doing  well,  and  if  they  escape  the  diseases 
of  infancy,  I  hope  you  will  sit  down  at  table  with  their 
children's  children.  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  remem 
ber  them,  and  therefore  just  like  you.  They  came  like 
a  fairy  godmother's  gift  just  as  I  was  wishing  I  had 
them. 

The  great  sensation  of  the  day  is  Sumner's  speech 
on  the  rejection  of  the  treaty  with  Great  Britain.  I 
think  he  has  expressed  the  national  feeling  of  the  mo 
ment  pretty  faithfully.  Mind,  I  say  of  the  moment. 
The  country  was  blushing  at  the  maudlin  blarney  of 
Reverdy  Johnson,  and  that  made  the  old  red  spot, 
where  we  felt  that  our  cheek  had  been  slapped,  tingle 
again.  If  Mr.  Adams  had  remained  in  England,  I  be 
lieve  the  whole  matter  might  have  been  settled  to  the 
satisfaction  of  both  parties.  Now  for  some  time  to 
come  that  will  unhappily  be  impossible.  But  our  sober 
est  heads  do  not  think  that  Sumner  is  right  in  his  state 
ment  of  the  law,  and  I  think  that  the  discussion  which 
is  likely  to  follow  will  clear  the  way  for  some  reasonable 
settlement  of  the  difficulty.  That  there  is  any  annex 
ation-cat  under  Sumner's  meal  I,  for  one,  do  not  in  the 
least  believe.  The  absorption  of  Canada  would  be  sim 
ply  the  addition  of  so  much  strength  to  the  Democratic 
party — no  bad  thing  in  itself,  by  the  way,  but  certainly 
not  to  the  taste  of  the  party  now  in  power.  Meanwhile, 
fools  talk  as  glibly  of  a  war  with  England  as  if  it  would 
not  be  the  greatest  wrong  and  calamity  to  civilization 
in  all  history.  But  I  will  not  suffer  myself  to  think  of 
such  an  outrage.  If  the  English  government  behave 


1869]  TO    LESLIE    STEPHEN  27 

with  discretion  and  show  a  kindly  feeling  towards  us 
whenever  they  have  a  chance,  I  think  all  will  come  out 
right.  It  was  the  tone  of  Palmerston's  cabinet,  more 
than  anything  else  during  the  war,  that  made  the  sore. 
The  speech  of  Chandler  of  Michigan,  by  the  way,  is  a 
sample  of  our  folly  in  the  same  way.  It  may  do  harm 
in  England — here  it  has  no  significance  whatever.  .  .  . 

In  certain  respects  you  can  say  nothing  worse  of  us 
than  we  deserve.  The  power  of  "  Rings  "  in  our  poli 
tics  is  becoming  enormous.  Men  buy  their  seats  in  the 
Senate,  and,  of  course,  expect  a  profit  on  their  invest 
ment.  This  is  why  the  Senate  clung  so  to  the  Tenure- 
of-Office  bill.  Grant  means  well,  but  has  his  hands  tied. 
We  are  becoming  a  huge  stock-jobbery,  and  Repub 
licans  and  Democrats  are  names  for  bulls  and  bears. 
Pitch  into  us  on  all  these  matters  as  you  will.  You  will 
do  us  good,  for  English  papers  (except  by  a  few  bar 
barians  like  me)  are  more  read  here  than  ever  before, 
and  criticism — no  matter  how  sharp  if  it  be  honest — is 
what  we  need. 

Whatever  happens,  my  dear  Stephen,  nothing  can 
shake  or  alter  the  hearty  love  I  feel  for  you.  I  was 
going  to  say  affection,  but  the  Saxon  word  has  the  truer 
flavor.  If  you  should  ever  be  called  upon  to  receive 
my  sword  hilt  foremost,  I  am  sure  you  will  share  your 
tobacco-pouch  and  canteen  with  me;  and  if  ever  I 
should  take  you  prisoner,  the  worst  you  will  have  to 
fear  will  be  to  be  made  to  eat  too  many  pocket- 
melons.  .  .  . 

Always  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 


28  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

TO   E.  L.  GODKIN 

Elmwood,  May  2,  1869. 

My  dear  Godkin, —  ...  I  note  particularly  (as  mer 
chants  say)  your  remarks  on  British  manners  and  our 
opinion  of  them.  I  would  have  said  it  myself — if  only 
I  had  thought  of  it !  A  frequent  cause  of  misappre 
hension  is  their  not  being  able  to  understand  that  while 
there  is  no  caste  here,  there  is  the  widest  distinction  of 
classes.  O  my  dear  Godkin,  they  say  we  don't  speak 
English,  and  I  wish  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  we 
didn't — that  we  might  comprehend  one  another!  Im 
pertinence  and  ill-will  are  latent  in  French — the  Gaul 
can  poison  his  discourse  so  as  to  give  it  a  more  agree 
able  flavor;  but  we  clumsy  Anglo-Saxons  stir  in  our 
arsenic  so  stupidly  it  grits  between  the  teeth.  I  wrote 
the  essay  you  allude  to,  mainly  with  the  hope  of  bring 
ing  about  a  better  understanding.  My  heart  aches  with 
apprehension  as  I  sit  here  in  my  solitude  and  brood 
over  the  present  aspect  of  things  between  the  two  coun 
tries.  We  are  crowding  England  into  a  fight  which 
would  be  a  horrible  calamity  for  both — but  worse  for  us 
than  for  them.  It  would  end  in  our  bankruptcy  and 
perhaps  in  disunion.  (When  I  remember  that  both  Ire 
land  and  Scotland  have  been  the  allies  of  France,  I  don't 
feel  sure  which  side  the  South  would  take.)  As  for  Can 
ada — I  doubt  if  we  should  get  by  war  what  will  fall  to 
us  by  natural  gravitation  if  we  wait.  We  don't  want 
Canada;  all  we  want  is  the  free  navigation  of  the  St. 
Lawrence,  and  that  England  will  yield  us  ere  long.  We 
have  no  better  ground  of  action  than  Dr.  Fell  would 


1869]  TO   E.  L.  GODKIN  29 

have  had  because  people  didn't  like  him.  It  is  not  so 
much  of  what  England  did  as  of  the  animus  with  which 
she  did  it  that  we  complain  —  a  matter  of  sentiment 
wholly  incapable  of  arbitration.  Sumner's  speech  ex 
pressed  the  feeling  of  the  country  very  truly,  but  I  fear 
it  was  not  a  wise  speech.  Was  he  not  trying  rather  to 
chime  in  with  that  feeling  than  to  give  it  a  juster  and 
manlier  direction?  After  all,  it  is  not  the  Alabama  that 
is  at  the  bottom  of  our  grudge.  It  is  the  Trent  that 
we  quarrel  about,  like  Percy  and  Glendower.  That  was 
like  an  east  wind  to  our  old  wound  and  set  it  a-twmge 
once  more.  Old  wrongs  are  as  sure  to  come  back  on 
our  hands  as  cats.  England  had  five  thousand  Ameri 
cans  (she  herself  admitted  that  she  had  half  that  num 
ber)  serving  enforcedly  aboard  her  fleets.  Remember 
what  American  seamen  then  were,  and  conceive  the  tra 
ditions  of  injustice  they  left  behind  them  with  an  exo- 
riare  aliquis  !  That  imperious  despatch  of  Lord  John's 
made  all  those  inherited  drops  of  ill  blood  as  hot  as 
present  wrongs.  It  is  a  frightful  tangle  —  but  let  us 
hope  for  the  best.  I  have  no  patience  with  people  who 
discuss  the  chances  of  such  a  war  as  if  it  were  between 
France  and  Prussia.  It  is  as  if  two  fellows  half  way 
down  the  Niagara  rapids  should  stop  rowing  to  debate 
how  far  they  were  from  the  fall.  As  for  Butler's  "  Wait 
till  I  catch  you  in  a  dark  lane !"  I  have  no  words  for  it. 
I  could  not  at  first  think  what  book  about  Rome  you 
meant.  At  length  I  recollected  Duppa's  "  Papal  Subver 
sion."  This,  I  take  it,  is  the  passage  you  mean.  'Tis  a 
note  on  p.  79.  "  Such  was  the  mild,  or  rather  corrupt, 
state  of  the  Roman  government,  that  during  the  late 


30  LETTERS   OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1869 

pontificate  culprits  were  rarely  punished  with  death  for 
any  crime  :  hence  the  slightest  offence  between  individu 
als  was  a  sufficient  plea  to  justify  any  atrocity,  and  each 
often  became  avenger  of  his  own  wrong  by  assassina 
tion.  [Hang  the  fellow  !  what  a  talent  of  prolongation 
he  has!]  To  such  an  excess  was  this  arrived  that, 
during  twenty-two  years  of  the  late  reign,  not  less  than 
eighteen  thousand  persons  were  murdered  in  public  and 
private  quarrels  in  the  Ecclesiastical  State  alone,  accord 
ing  to  the  bills  of  mortality  in  the  governor's  office, 
where  from  every  district  a  return  was  annually  made. 

"  It  was  a  common  opinion  that  it  was  the  Pope's 
particular  aversion  to  capital  punishment  that  produced 
this  laxity  in  the  administration  of  justice,  but  I  have 
it  from  high  authority  that  he  never  saved  any  man 
from  death  who  had  been  condemned  by  the  law.  Jus 
tice,  indeed,  would  seem  not  to  have  been  worse  admin 
istered  by  the  officers  of  the  State  in  this  reign  than  in 
that  of  his  penultimate  predecessor  Rezzonico,  in  whose 
pontificate,  which  comprehended  a  period  of  little  more 
than  eleven  years,  ten  thousand  murders  were  commit 
ted  in  the  papal  dominions,  of  which  at  least  one  third 
were  perpetrated  in  the  city  of  Rome." 

That  is  all  I  find  to  your  purpose.  Is  this  what  you 
meant?  While  I  am  copying,  I  send  you  an  extract 
from  the  "  Letters  of  an  American  Farmer"  (1782),  by 
H.  St.  John  Crevecceur — dear  book,  with  some  pages  in 
it  worthy  of  Selborne  White.  .  .  .  Perhaps  it  will  help 
you  to  a  paragraph.  'Tis  a  consolation  to  see  that  the 
gloomy  forebodings  of  the  Frenchman  have  not  yet 
been  realized. 


1869]  TO   E.  L.  GODKIN  31 

"  Lawyers  .  .  .  are  plants  that  will  grow  in  any  soil 
that  is  cultivated  by  the  hands  of  others,  and,  when 
once  they  have  taken  root,  they  will  extinguish  every 
vegetable  that  grows  around  them.     The  fortunes  they 
daily  acquire  in  every  province  from  the  misfortunes  of 
their  fellow-citizens  are  surprising !    The  most  ignorant, 
the  most  bungling  member  of  that  profession  will,  if 
placed  in  the  most  obscure  part  of  the  country,  pro 
mote    litigiousness,   and    amass    more   wealth  without 
labor  than  the  most  opulent  farmer  with  all  his  toils. 
They  have  so  dexterously  interwoven  their  doctrines 
and  quirks  with  the  laws  of  the  land,  or  rather  they  are 
become  so  necessary  an  evil  in  our  present  constitu 
tions,  that  it  seems  unavoidable  and  past  all  remedy. 
What  a  pity  that  our  forefathers,  who  happily  extin 
guished   so  many  fatal   customs,  and    expunged    from 
their  new  government  so  many  errors  and  abuses,  both 
religious  and  civil,  did  not  also  prevent  the  introduction 
of  a  set  of  men  so  dangerous !  .  .  .  The  nature  of  our 
laws,  and  the  spirit  of  freedom,  which  often  tends  to 
make  us  litigious,  must  necessarily  throw  the  greatest 
part  of  the  property  of  the  colonies  into  the  hands  of 
these  gentlemen.     In  another  century  the  law  will  pos 
sess  in  the  north  what  now  the  Church  possesses  in 
Peru  and  Mexico." — There's  a  gloomy  prospect  for  us ! 
We  have  only  thirteen  years'  grace,  and   the    century 
of  prophecy  will  have  dribbled  away  to  the  last  drop. 

Pray  give  Henry  Wilson  a  broadside  for  dipping  his 
flag  to  that  piratical  craft  of  the  eight-hour  men.  I 
don't  blame  him  for  sympathizing  with  his  former  fel 
low-craftsmen  (though  he  took  to  unproductive  indus- 


32  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

try  at  the  first  chance),  but  I  have  a  thorough  contempt 
for  a  man  who  pretends  to  believe  that  eight  is  equal 
to  ten,  and  makes  philanthropy  a  stalking-horse.  Jove! 
what  a  fellow  Aristophanes  was!  Here  is  Cleon  over 
again  with  a  vengeance. 

It  troubles  me  to  hear  that  you  of  all  men  should  be 
in  low  spirits,  who  ought  to  have  store  of  good  spirits 
in  the  consciousness  that  you  are  really  doing  good. 
The  Nation  is  always  cheering  to  me ;  let  its  success  be 
a  medicine  to  you.  .  .  . 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO  W.  D.  HOWELLS 

Elmwood,  May  12, 1869. 

My  dear  Howells, — I  have  just  got  a  letter  from  Miss 
Norton,  in  which  she  says,  "  What  an  enchanting  little 
paper  that  is  on  *  My  Doorstep  Acquaintance/  by  Mr. 
Howells !  The  pretty  pictures  in  it  come  up  before  me 
as  I  write,  and  I  am  not  quite  sure  whether  Cambridge 
is  in  Italy — though,  now  I  think  of  it,  I  know  Italy  is 
sometimes  in  Cambridge !  When  you  see  Mr.  Howells, 
please  tell  him  how  much  we  all  liked  his  sketches  of 
our  old  friends." 

There's  for  you !  Put  that  in  your  pipe  and  smoke  it ! 
I  liked  it  as  much  as  they  did. 

Always  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.L. 

TO   E.  L.  GODKIN 

Elmwood,  July  16,  1869. 
My  dear  Godkin,— I  have  long  been  of  that  philoso- 


1869]  TO    E.  L.  GODKIN  33 

pher's  opinion  who  declared  that  "  nothing  was  of  much 
consequence"  —  at  least  when  it  concerned  only  our 
selves,  and  certainly  my  verses  were  of  none  at  all.  I 
copied  them  for  you,  not  for  myself. 

But  the  Nation  is  of  consequence,  and  that's  the 
reason  I  am  writing  now,  instead  of  merely  melting,  to 
which  the  weather  so  feelingly  persuades.  You  have 
never  done  better  than  in  the  last  six  months.  Indeed, 
I  think  that  you  have  improved  with  your  growing  con 
viction  of  your  own  power — a  fact  which  has,  if  possible, 
increased  my  respect  for  you.  At  any  rate,  it  proves 
that  you  are  to  be  counted  among  the  strong  and  not 
the  merely  energetic.  Most  editors  when  they  feel  their 
power  are  like  beggars  on  horseback.  /  don't  see  why 
everybody  doesn't  take  the  Nation.  I  always  read  it 
through,  and  I  never  read  the  editorials  in  any  other 
paper.  My  opinion  is  worth  as  much  as  the  next  man's, 
at  least,  and  I  see  no  paper  that  is  so  uniformly  good. 
I  was  looking  over  some  numbers  of  the  Pall  Mall 
yesterday,  and  didn't  think  it  at  all  up  to  your  (I 
mean  E.  L.  G.'s)  standard.  This  is  not  loyalty,  but 
my  deliberate  opinion.  Your  reception*  the  other 
day  should  show  you  (and  that  is  all  I  value  it  for) 
that ,  your  services  to  the  cause  of  good  sense,  good 
morals,  and  good  letters  are  recognized.  You  have 
hity  which  is  all  a  man  can  ask.  Most  of  us  blaze  away 
into  the  void,  and  are  as  likely  to  bring  down  a  cheru- 
bin  as  anything  else.  Pat  your  gun  and  say,  "  Well 
done,  Brown  Bess!"  For  'tis  an  honest,  old-fashioned 

*  At  the  Commencement  Dinner  at  Harvard  University. 

n.-3 


34  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

piece,  of  straightforward  short-range  notions,  and  carries 
an  ounce  ball. 

And  in  other  respects  the  Nation  has  been  excellent 
lately.  I  haven't  seen  a  better  piece  of  writing  than  that 
French  atelier.  It  is  the  very  best  of  its  kind.  Cherish 
that  man,  whoever  he  is.  Whatever  he  has  seen  he  can 
write  well  about,  for  he  really  sees.  Why,  he  made  me 
see  as  I  read.  The  fellow  is  a  poet,  and  all  the  better 
for  not  knowing  it. 

It  is  the  unsettled  state  of  affairs  that  is  hurting  you,  if 
anything,  though  your  advertising  pages  look  prosperous. 
Wells,  I  am  told,  prophesies  a  crash  for  1870,  and  fears 
that  Congress  will  be  weak  enough  to  water  the  currency 
again — in  other  words,  the  national  stock.  I  am  no'  yet 
cured  of  my  fear  of  repudiation,  I  confess.  Democracies 
are  kittle  cattle  to  shoe  behind.  It  takes  men  of  a  higher 
sense  of  honor  than  our  voters  mostly  are  to  look  at  na 
tional  bankruptcy  in  any  other  than  a  business  light — 
and  whitewash  of  all  kinds  is  so  cheap  nowadays.  Still, 
in  spite  of  my  fears,  I  think  we  shall  come  out  all  right, 
for  a  country  where  everybody  does  something  has  a 
good  many  arrows  in  its  quiver.  And  though  I  believe 
that  property  is  the  base  of  civilization,  yet  when  I  look 
at  France,  I  am  rather  reconciled  to  the  contempt  with 
which  we  treat  its  claims.  There  are,  after  all,  better 
things  in  the  world  than  what  we  call  civilization  even. 

Always  yours, 

J,  R.  L. 

TO  W.  D.  HOWELLS 

Elmwood,  Aug.  n,  1869. 
My  dear  Howells, — Up  to   time,  indeed !      The  fear 


1869]  TO    W.   D.   HOWELLS  35 

is  not  about  time,  but  space.  You  won't  have  room 
in  your  menagerie  for  such  a  displeaseyousaurus.  The 
verses  if  stretched  end  to  end  in  a  continuous  line 
would  go  clear  round  the  Cathedral  they  celebrate,  and 
nobody  (I  fear)  the  wiser.  I  can't  tell  yet  what  they 
are.  There  seems  a  bit  of  clean  carving  here  and  there, 
a  solid  buttress  or  two,  and  perhaps  a  gleam  through 
painted  glass — but  I  have  not  copied  it  out  yet,  nor  in 
deed  read  it  over  consecutively. 

As  for  the  poem  you  sent  me,  I  should  have  printed  it 
when  I  sat  in  your  chair.  I  will  not  criticise  it  further 
than  to  say  that  there  is  a  great  deal  too  much  epithet. 
The  author  has  wreaked  himself  on  it.  I  should  say 
hersi  If,  for  I  guess  'tis  a  gal. 

Here  was  I,  who  have  just  written  an  awfully  long 
thing,*  going  to  advise  the  shortening  of  this  other.  But 
such  is  human  nature,  capable,  I  am  thankful  to  say,  of 
every  kind  of  inconsistency.  However,  I  am  always  con 
sistently  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO    THE   SAME 

Elmwood,  Thursday. 

.  .  .  Thank  you  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,  old  fel 
low,  for  your  note.  If  I  divine  that  it  is  partly  me  that 
you  like  in  the  poem,  I  am  all  the  more  pleased.  I  don't 
care  how  much  or  how  long  we  mutually  admire  each, 
other,  if  it  make  us  happier  and  kindlier,  as  I  am  sure  it 
does.  No  man's  praise,  at  any  rate,  could  please  me 
more  than  yours,  and  your  affectionate  messages  will 

*  "  The  Cathedral." 


36  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

send  me  to  my  college  lecture  this  afternoon  with  a 
better  heart.  God  bless  you !  Keep  on  writing,  and 
among  other  things  billets-doux  like  this,  which  made 
my  eyelids  tremble  a  little  with  pleasure. 

Always  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

P.  S.  I  haven't  a  minute  to  spare,  but  I  am  just  going 
to  read  it  over  again,  lest  I  missed  any  of  the  sweetness. 

TO   MISS   NORTON 

Elmwood,  Sept.  6,  1869. 

1.  You  order  me,  dear  Jane,  to  write  a  sonnet. 

2.  Behold  the  initial  verse  and  eke  the  second ; 

3.  This  is  the  third  (if  I  have  rightly  reckoned), 

4.  And  now  I  clap  the  fourth  and  fifth  upon  it 

5.  As  easily  as  you  would  don  your  bonnet; 

6.  The  sixth  comes  tripping  in  as  soon  as  beckoned, 

7.  Nor  for  the  seventh  is  my  brain  infecund; 

8.  A  shocking  rhyme !  but,  while  you  pause  to  con  it, 

9.  The  eighth  is  finished,  with  the  ninth  to  follow ; 

10.  As  for  the  tenth,  why,  that  must  wedge  between 

11.  The  ninth  and  this  I  am  at  present  scrawling; 

12.  Twelve  with  nine  matches  pat  as  wings  of  swallow; 

13.  Blushingly  after  that  comes  coy  thirteen  ; 

14.  And  this  crowns  all,  as  sailor  his  tarpauling. 

I  confess  that  I  stole  the  idea  of  the  above  sonnet 
from  one  of  Lope  de  Vega's,  written  under  similar  cir 
cumstances.  Now,  in  that  very  sonnet  Lope  offers  you 
a  bit  of  instruction  by  which  I  hope  you  will  profit  and 
never  again  ask  for  one  in  twelve  lines.  He  says,  in  so 
many  words, 


1869]  TO    MISS    NORTON  37 

"  Catorce  versos  dicen  que  es  soneto," 

one  more  than  even  the  proverbial  baker's  dozen,  which 
shows  the  unthriftiness  of  poets  in  their  own  wares — or, 
perhaps  you  will  say,  their  somewhat  tiresome  liberality. 
I  dare  say  most  sonnets  would  be  better  if  cut  off,  like 
the  cur's  tail,  just  behind  the  ears.  Having  given  you 
this  short  and  easy  lesson  in  the  essential  element  of  Pe 
trarch's  inspiration,  I  now  proceed  to  do  another  sonnet 
in  the  received  sentimental  style  of  those  somewhat  arti 
ficial  compositions. 

Ah,  think  not,  dearest  Maid,  that  I  forget ! 

Say,  in  midwinter  doth  the  prisoned  bee 

Forget  the  flowers  he  whilom  held  in  fee  ? 

In  free-winged  fantasy  he  hovers  yet 

O'er  pansy-tufts  and  beds  of  mignonette. 

And  I,  from  honeyed  cells  of  memory 

Drawing  in  darkened  days  my  stores  of  thee, 

Seek  La  Pacotte  on  dream-wings  of  regret. 

I  see  thee  vernal  as  when  first  I  saw, 

Buzzing  in  quest  of  sugar  for  my  rhyme ; 

And  this,  my  heart  assures  me,  is  Love's  law, 

That  he  annuls  the  seasons'  frosty  crime, 

And,  warmly  wrapped  against  Oblivion's  flaw, 

Tastes  in  his  garnered  sweets  the  blossoming  thyme. 

Perhaps  the  eighth  verse  would  be  better  thus, 
Fly  on  dream-wings  to  La  Pacotte,  you  bet ! 

That,  at  least,  has  the  American  flavor,  which  our  poetry 
is  said  to  lack.  ...  I  do  not  mean  by  the  twelfth  verse 
to  insinuate  anything  unfeeling.  It  is  merely  to  be  in 
keeping  with  the  laws  of  the  sonnet,  and  to  bring  the 


38  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

thought  back  to  where  it  set  out,  like  a  kitten  playing 
with  its  own  tail.  But  I  will  confess  to  you  that  I  am 
getting  so  gray  that  /  see  it ;  so  you  may  be  sure  there 
is  not  much  to  choose  between  me  and  the  traditional 
badger.  Happily,  I  am  grown  no  stouter,  though  already 
"  more  fat  than  bard  beseems." 

But  why  have  I  not  written  all  this  while?  .  .  .  For 
all  August  I  have  a  valid  excuse.  First,  I  was  writing  a 
poem,  and  second,  a  pot-boiler.  The  poem  turned  out  to 
be  something  immense,  as  the  slang  is  nowadays,  that  is, 
it  ran  on  to  eight  hundred  lines  of  blank  verse.  I  hope 
it  is  good,  for  it  fairly  trussed  me  at  last  and  bore  me 
up  as  high  as  my  poor  lungs  will  bear  into  the  heaven 
of  invention.  I  was  happy  writing  it,  and  so  steeped  in 
it  that  if  I  had  written  to  you  it  would  have  been  in 
blank  verse.  It  is  a  kind  of  religious  poem,  and  is  called 
"  A  Day  at  Chartres."  I  remember  telling  Charles  once 
that  I  had  it  under  my  hair.  ...  I  can't  tell  yet  how  it 
will  stand.  Already  I  am  beginning  to — to — you  know 
what  I  mean  —  to  taste  my  champagne  next  morning. 
However,  you  will  see  it  in  the  January  Atlantic,  and 
you  must  try  to  like  it  and  me.  I  can't  spare  either.  .  .  . 


TO   MISS   CABOT 

Elmwood,  Sept.  14,  1869. 

.  .  .  The  advantage  of  study,  I  suspect,  is  not  in  the 
number  of  things  we  learn  by  it,  but  simply  that  it 
teaches  us  the  one  thing  worth  knowing — not  what,  but 
how  to  think.  Nobody  can  learn  that  from  other  people. 
Apart  from  the  affection  I  feel  for  you,  I  have  always 


1869]  TO   MISS   CABOT  39 

liked  in  you  a  certain  independence  of  character  and  a 
tendency  to  judge  for  yourself.  Both  these  are  excellent 
if  kept  within  bounds,  if  you  do  not  allow  the  one  to  de 
generate  into  insubordination  of  mind  and  the  other  into 
hastiness  of  prejudice.  Now,  I  am  inclined  to  think  that 
one  may  get  a  reasonably  good  education  out  of  any  first- 
rate  book  if  read  in  the  right  way.  Take  Dante  or  Milton, 
for  example.  If  you  like  or  dislike  a  passage,  insist  with 
yourself  on  knowing  the  reason  why.  You  are  already  un 
consciously  learning  rhetoric  in  the  best  way.  Then  ask 
yourself  what  is  contemporary  and  what  perdurable  in  his 
theology  and  the  like.  You  are  not  only  studying  the 
history  of  his  time,  but  also,  what  is  vastly  more  import 
ant,  [learning]  to  look  with  deeper  insight  at  that  of  your 
own  time.  You  see  what  I  mean.  If  all  roads  lead  to 
Rome,  so  do  all  roads  lead  out  of  Rome  to  every  province 
of  thought.  What  one  wants  is  to  enlarge  his  mind,  to 
make  it  charitable,  and  capable  of  instruction  and  enjoy 
ment  from  many  sides.  When  one  has  learned  that,  he 
has  begun  to  be  wise — whether  he  be  learned  or  not  is  of 
less  consequence.  How  is  it  possible,  I  always  ask  my 
self  in  reading,  that  a  man  could  have  thought  so  and  so, 
and  especially  a  superior  man  ?  When  I  have  formed  to 
myself  some  notion  of  that,  I  understand  my  contempo 
raries  better,  for  every  one  of  us  has  within  ten  miles' 
circuit  specimens  of  every  generation  since  Adam. 

But  I  am  preaching,  my  dear  Lilla,  and  you  don't  like 
any  preaching  but  Dr.  Clarke's  perhaps  ?  What  I  mean 
is  that  our  aim  should  be  not  to  get  many  things  into 
one's  head,  but  to  get  much,  and  one  gets  that  when  he 
has  learned  the  relations  of  any  one  thing  to  all  others ; 


40  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

because  in  so  doing  he  has  got  the  right  way  of  looking 
at  anything.  I  have  no  fear  that  your  education  will  be 
neglected,  because  I  am  sure  that  you  will  look  after  it 
yourself — because,  moreover,  you  have  an  alert  nature 
and  a  scorn  of  ignoble  things.  .  .  . 


TO   THOMAS   HUGHES 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Sept.  18,  1869. 

My  dear  Hughes, — We  are  all  very  well  satisfied  with 
the  result  of  the  match.*  For  my  own  part,  I  have  al 
ways  thought  that  "  magnis  tamen  excidit  ausis "  was 
not  a  bad  kind  of  epitaph.  I  should  only  be  sorry  if  our 
defeat  were  attributed  to  want  of  bottom.  Our  crew  had 
already  pulled  a  four-mile  race  on  their  own  water  and 
won  it  against  a  crew  of  professional  oarsmen.  I  think 
that  in  private  we  may  claim  a  little  on  the  score  of 
change  of  climate,  though,  of  course,  they  had  to  take 
their  chance  of  that.  I  am  particularly  glad  to  know 
that  you  thought  it  a  good  pull,  because  you  have  a  right 
to  an  opinion.  I  did  not  expect  them  to  win,  though  I 
hoped  they  would.  Especially  I  hoped  it  because  I 
thought  it  would  do  more  towards  bringing  about  a 
more  friendly  feeling  between  the  two  countries  than 
anything  else.  I  am  glad  to  think  it  has  had  that  result 
as  it  is.  It  isn't  the  Alabama  claims  that  rankle,  but  the 
tone  of  the  English  press,  or  the  more  influential  part  of 
it.  There  is  a  curious  misapprehension  about  us  over 
there,  as  if  we  had  been  a  penal  colony.  For  example : 

*  The  race  between  an  Oxford  and  a  Harvard  four-oar  crew, 
on  the  Thames,  of  which  Mr.  Hughes  was  the  umpire. 


1869]  TO    THOMAS    HUGHES  41 

when  Longfellow  was  in  Rome  he  drove  out  to  some 
races  on  the  Campagna.  There  his  carriage  chanced  to 
be  abreast  of  one  in  which  two  English  ladies  were  dis 
cussing  the  manners  of  American  girls.  At  last  one  of 
them  summed  up  thus :  "  Well,  you  know,  what  can  be 
expected  of  people  who  are  all  descended  from  laboring 
men  or  convicts  ?"  Now,  between  ourselves,  one  of  the 
things  that  has  always  amused  me  in  my  brother  New- 
Englanders  is  their  fondness  for  family  trees.  You  will 
remember  that  I  made  a  little  fun  of  it  in  the  introduc 
tion  to  the  first  series  of  the  "  Biglow  Papers."  It  is  a 
branch  of  arboriculture  in  which  I  take  no  great  interest 
myself,  but  my  father  was  as  proud  of  his  pedigree  as  a 
Talbot  or  a  Stanley  could  be,  and  Parson  Wilbur's  gene 
alogical  mania  was  a  private  joke  between  us.  Now,  you 
can  understand  how  the  tone  I  speak  of  would  be  re 
sented.  I  think  Sumner's  speech  as  an  argument  a  mere 
colander,  but  it  represented  the  temper  of  our  people 
pretty  exactly.  On  your  side,  it  was  all  along  assumed 
that  England  had  a  point  of  honor  to  maintain,  and  all 
along  implied  that  this  was  something  of  which  we  natu 
rally  had  no  conception,  and  to  which,  of  course,  our  side 
could  lay  no  claim.  Don't  you  see  ?  Now,  our  point  of 
honor  runs  back  to  the  Little  Belt  and  the  President,  as 
long  ago  as  1809  or  so.  In  those  days  American  sea 
men  belonged  to  the  very  best  class  of  our  population, 
and  there  were  five  thousand  such  serving  enforcedly 
on  board  your  ships-of-war.  Put  it  at  half  the  number 
(which  was  admitted  on  your  side),  and  fancy  what  a 
ramification  of  bitter  traditions  would  thread  the  whole 
country  from  these  men  and  their  descendants.  You 


42  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

know  that  such  little  chickens  always  come  home  to 
roost,  and  these  are  just  beginning  to  flock  in  now.  I 
am  writing  all  this  that  you  may  understand  something 
of  the  feeling  here. 

I  think  that  all  we  want  is  to  be  treated  in  a  manly 
way.  We  don't  want  to  be  flattered,  and  some  of  us 
thought  your  newspapers  went  quite  far  enough  in  that 
direction  just  after  the  war.  Tell  us  the  truth  as  much 
as  you  like,  it  will  do  us  good ;  but  tell  it  in  a  friendly 
way,  or  at  least  not  quite  so  much  de  haut  en  bas.  Your 
letter  in  accepting  the  umpireship  in  the  race  hit  precisely 
the  right  key.  There  are  plenty  of  sensible  men  on  this 
side  of  the  water  (more,  I  think,  than  I  have  found  in  any 
other  country) — men,  I  mean,  who  are  governed  rather 
more,  in  the  long  run,  by  reason  than  by  passion  or  prej 
udice.  I  did  not  like  Sumner's  speech,  nor  did  the  kind 
of  men  I  speak  of  like  it  (and  their  opinions,  though  less 
noisily  expressed,  have  more  influence  on  our  politics 
than  you  would  suppose);  but  I  am  inclined  to  think  it 
has  done  more  good  than  harm.  It  served  as  a  vent  for 
a  great  deal  of  fire-damp  that  might  have  gone  off  with 
an  explosion,  and  satisfied  that  large  class  who  need  the 
"you're  another"  style  of  argument.  If  only  some  man 
in  your  government  could  find  occasion  to  say  that  Eng 
land  had  mistaken  her  own  true  interest  in  the  sympathy 
she  showed  for  the  South  during  our  civil  war !  No  na 
tion  ever  apologizes  except  on  her  knees,  and  I  hope 
England  is  far  enough  from  being  brought  to  that — no 
sane  man  here  expects  it — but  she  could  make  some  harm 
less  concessions  that  would  answer  all  the  purpose.  I 
have  pretty  good  authority  for  thinking  that  Motley  was 


1869]  TO   W.  D.  HOWELLS  43 

instructed  to  make  no  overtures  on  the  Alabama  matter, 
and  perhaps  it  is  as  well  to  let  things  subside  a  little  first. 
Still,  I  dread  to  have  the  affair  left  unsettled  a  moment 
longer  than  can  be  helped.  Your  greatest  safeguard 
against  us  would  be  a  settlement  of  the  Irish  land  ques 
tion.  It  is  a  heroic  remedy,  but  you  must  come  to  it 
one  day  or  other.  I  never  believed  in  the  efficacy  of 
disestablishment.  Arthur  Young  told  you  where  the  real 
trouble  was  eighty  odd  years  ago.  My  fear  is  (as  things 
stand  now)  that  if  England  should  get  into  a  war,  we 
could  not  (with  our  immense  length  of  coast)  prevent 
privateers  from  slipping  out,  and  then !  It  would  be 
a  black  day  for  mankind. 

You  ask  me  who  "  Bob  Wickliffe  "  was.  He  was  a 
senator  from  Kentucky,  and  Kentucky  undertook  to  be 
neutral.  It  was  a  bull  I  thought  we  should  take  by  the 
horns  at  once,  as  we  had  at  last  to  do. 

I  have  been  writing  a  poem  which  I  think  you  will 
like.  It  will  be  published  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for 
January,  and  I  shall  send  you  a  copy.  I  did  not  send 
you  my  last  volume,  because  I  knew  you  would  get  it 
earlier  from  Macmillan,  and  you  did  not  need  it  to  as 
sure  you  of  my  friendship.  Mabel  gives  us  hope  of  a 
visit  from  you  next  year.  I  need  not  say  how  welcome 

you  will  be. 

Always  heartily  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO  W.  D.  HOWELLS 

Elmwood,  Sept.  22,  1869. 
My  dear  Howells, — Forgive  this  purple  ink.     It  was 


44  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

palmed  upon  me  the  other  day,  who  in  my  simple  con 
servatism  thought  all  the  ink  in  the  world  was  made  by 
Maynard  &  Noyes,  as  it  used  to  be.  I  have  a  horrible 
suspicion  that  it  may  be  a  "  writing  fluid  " — still  worse, 
that  it  may  treacherously  turn  black  before  you  get  this, 
and  puzzle  you  as  to  what  I  am  driving  at.  It  is  now, 
on  my  honor,  of  the  color  of  pokeberry  juice,  whereof  we 
used  to  make  a  delusive  red  ink  when  we  were  boys.  I 
feel  as  if  I  were  writing  ancient  Tyrian,  and  becoming 
more  inscrutable  to  you  with  every  word.  Take  it  for 
"  the  purple  light  of  love/'  and  it  will  be  all  right. 

I  have  a  great  mind  (so  strong  is  the  devil  in  me,  de 
spite  my  years)  to  give  you  an  awful  pang  by  advising 
you  not  to  print  your  essay.  It  would  be  a  most  refined 
malice,  and  pure  jealousy,  after  all.  I  find  it  delightful, 
full  of  those  delicate  touches  which  the  elect  pause  over 
and  the  multitude  find  out  by  and  by — the  test  of  good 
writing  and  the  warrant  of  a  reputation  worth  having. 
As  Gray  said  of  the  romances  of  Cr£billon  fils,  I  should 
like  to  lie  on  a  sofa  all  day  long  and  read  such  essays. 
You  know  I  would  not  flatter  Neptune  for  his  trident — 
as  indeed  who  would,  that  did  not  toast  his  own  bread  ? 
— but  what  you  write  gives  me  a  real  pleasure,  as  it 
ought ;  for  I  have  always  prized  in  you  the  ideal  ele 
ment,  not  merely  in  your  thought,  but  in  your  way  of 
putting  it. 

And  one  of  these  days,  my  boy,  you  will  give  us  a  lit 
tle  volume  that  we  will  set  on  our  shelves,  with  James 
Howell  on  one  side  of  him  and  Charles  Lamb  on  the 
other — not  to  keep  him  warm,  but  for  the  pleasure  they 
will  take  in  rubbing  shoulders  with  him.  What  do  you 


1869]  TO    W.   D.   HOWELLS  45 

say  to  that  ?  It's  true,  and  I  hope  it  will  please  you  to 
read  it  as  much  as  it  does  me  to  write  it.  Nobody 
comes  near  you  in  your  own  line.  Your  Madonna 
would  make  the  fortune  of  any  essay — or  that  pathetic 
bit  there  in  the  graveyard  —  or  your  shop  of  decayed 
gentilities — or  fifty  other  things.  I  do  not  speak  of  the 
tone,  of  the  light  here  and  shade  there  that  tickle  me. 

You  were  mighty  good  to  procure  me  that  little  acces 
sion  of  fortune.*  It  will  give  Madam  a  new  gown — a 
luxury  she  has  not  had  these  three  years — and  will  just 
make  the  odds  between  feeling  easy  and  pinched.  It 
may  be  even  a  public  benefaction — for  I  attribute  the 
late  gale  in  large  part  to  my  frantic  efforts  at  raising  the 
wind  in  season  for  my  autumnal  taxes.  Yet  a  dreadful 
qualm  comes  over  me  that  I  am  paid  too  much.  When 
a  poet  reads  his  verses  he  has  such  an  advantage  over 
types !  You  will  gasp  when  you  see  me  in  print.  But 
never  fear  that  I  shall  betray  my  craft.  Far  from  me 
the  baseness  of  refunding !  Indeed  I  seldom  keep  money 
long  enough  for  Conscience  to  get  her  purchase  on  me 
and  her  lever  in  play.  What  a  safety  there  is  in  impe- 
cuniosity !  And  yet — let  me  read  Dryden's  Horace's 
"  Ode  to  Fortune,"  lest  if  a  million  come  down  upon 
me  I  should  be  so  in  love  with  security  as  to  put  aside 
the  temptation. 

Now  to  the  important  part  of  my  note.  I  want  you 
to  eat  roast  pig  with  me  on  Saturday  next  at  half-past 
four  P.  M.  Your  commensals  will  be  J.  H.,  Charles  Storey, 
and  Professor  Lane — all  true  blades  who  will  sit  till  Mon- 

*  An  additional  payment  for  "  The  Cathedral." 


46  LETTERS    OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1869 

day  morning  if  needful.  The  pig  is  just  ripe,  and  so 
tender  that  he  would  drop  from  his  tail  if  lifted  by  it, 
like  a  mature  cantaloupe  from  its  stem.  With  best 
regards  to  Mrs.  Howells, 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 


TO   MISS   NORTON 

Elmwood,  Sept.  28,  1869. 

My  dearest  old  Friend, —  ...  I  am  very  busy.  It  is 
a  lovely  day,  cool  and  bright,  and  the  Clerk  of  the 
Weather  has  just  put  a  great  lump  of  ice  in  the  pitcher 
from  which  he  pours  his  best  nectar.  Last  night,  as  I 
walked  home  from  Faculty  Meeting,  the  northern  lights 
streamed  up  like  great  organ-pipes,  and  loveliest  hues  of 
pink,  green,  and  blue  flitted  from  one  to  another  in  a 
silent  symphony.  To-day,  consequently,  is  cold  and 
clear,  with  a  bracing  dash  of  north-west.  Cutler  is  ill, 
and  I  am  shepherding  his  flocks  for  him  meanwhile — now 
leading  them  among  the  sham-classic  pastures  of  Cor- 
neille,  where  a  colonnade  supplies  the  dearth  of  herb 
age;  now  along  the  sunny,  broad -viewed  uplands  of 
Goethe's  prose.  It  is  eleven  o'clock,  and  I  am  just  back 
from  my  class.  At  four  I  go  down  again  for  two  hours 
of  German,  and  at  half-past  seven  I  begin  on  two  hours 
of  Dante.  Meanwhile  I  am  getting  ready  for  a  course 
of  twenty  University  lectures,  and  must  all  the  while 
keep  the  domestic  pot  at  a  cheerful  boil.  I  feel  some 
how  as  if  I  understood  that  disputed  passage  in  the 
"Tempest,"  where  Ferdinand  says, 


1869]  TO    T.   B.  ALDRICH  47 

"  Most  busy  least  when  I  do  it " — 

for  I  am  busy  enough,  and  yet  not  exactly  in  my  own 
vocation.  ...  As  for  the  Rousseau  article,  I  was  look 
ing  it  over  a  few  days  ago — I  am  going  to  make  a  vol 
ume  this  fall,  and  it  is  not  one  of  my  best.  I  have  not 
confidence  enough  in  myself  to  write  my  best  often. 
Sometimes  in  verse  I  forget  myself  enough  to  do  it, 
but  one  ought  to  be  popular.  If  ever  I  become  so,  you 
shall  see  a  better  kind  of  J.  R.  L.  To  me  Rousseau  is 
mainly  interesting  as  an  ancestor.  What  a  generation 
lay  hidden  in  his  loins !  and  of  children  so  unlike  as 
Cowper  and  Wordsworth  and  Byron  and  Chateaubriand 
and  Victor  Hugo  and  George  Sand  !  It  is  curious  that 
the  healthier  authors  leave  no  such  posterity.  .  .  . 

Your  ever  constant 

J.  R.  L. 

TO   T.  B.  ALDRICH 

Elmwood,  Nov.  30,  1869. 

My  dear  Aldrich, — It  is  a  capital  little  book  * — but  I 
had  read  it  all  before,  and  liked  it  thoroughly.  It  has 
been  pretty  much  all  my  novel  reading  all  summer.  I 
think  it  is  wholesome,  interesting,  and  above  all,  natural. 
The  only  quarrel  I  have  with  you  is  that  I  found  in  it 
that  infamous  word  "  transpired."  E-pluribus-unum  it ! 
Why  not  "happened"?  You  are  on  the  very  brink  of 
the  pit.  I  read  in  the  paper  t'other  day  that  some 
folks  had  "  extended  a  dinner  to  the  Hon."  Somebody 
or  other.  There  was  something  pleasing  to  the  baser 

*  "  The  Story  of  a  Bad  Boy." 


48  LETTERS   OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1869 

man  in  fancying  it  held  out  in  a  pair  of  tongs,  as  too 
many  of  our  Hon'bles  deserve — but  consider  where  Eng 
lish  is  going ! 

I  know  something  about  Rivermouth  myself — only 
before  you  were  born.  I  remember  in  my  seventh 
year  opening  a  long  red  chest  in  the  "  mansion  "  of  the 
late  famous  Dr.  Brackett,  and  being  confronted  with  a 
skeleton — the  first  I  had  ever  seen.  The  "  Mysteries  of 
Udolpho  "  were  nothing  to  it,  for  a  child,  somehow,  is  apt 
to  think  that  these  anatomies  are  always  made  so  by  foul 
means,  a  creed  which  I  still  hold  to  a  certain  extent. 

However,  I  am  not  writing  to  tell  you  about  myself 
— but  merely  to  say  how  much  I  like  your  little  book. 
I  wish  it  had  been  twice  as  large !  I  shall  send  you  a 
thin  one  of  my  own  before  long,  and  shall  be  content 
if  it  give  you  half  the  pleasure.  Make  my  kind  remem 
brances  acceptable  to  Mrs.  Aldrich,  and  tell  the  twins 
I  wish  they  may  both  grow  up  Bad  Boys. 

Cordially  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   E.  L.  GODKIN 

Elm  wood,  Dec.  3,  1869. 

...  I  think  the  article  in  the  last  Quarterly  settles 
the  Byron  matter — and  settles  it  as  I  expected.  After 
this,  any  discussion  of  the  particular  charge  in  ques 
tion  seems  to  me  a  mere  waste  of  pen  and  ink,  per 
haps  (worse)  of  temper  too.  I  doubt,  even  if  this  were 
not  so,  if  I  could  at  present  treat  it  with  the  all-round 
ness  it  deserves.  With  four  lectures  a  week,  I  am  as 
busy  as  I  can  bear  just  now. 


I 


I86g]  TO   C.  E.  NORTON  49 

But  I  write  to  ask  a  favor  of  you.  I  read  in  my 
newspaper  this  morning  that  the  dramatic  critic  of  the 
Daily  News  has  been  giving  a  list  of  John  Kemble's 
odd  pronunciations.  I  should  much  like  to  see  it,  and 
thought  it  not  unlikely  that  you  might  have  a  copy  of 
the  paper  which  you  could  spare  me.  If  not,  could 
you  not  get  me  one  ?  I  should  be  greatly  obliged.  .  .  . 


TO  C.  E.  NORTON 

Elmwood,  Dec.  10,  1869. 

.  .  .  My  vacation  was  pretty  well  occupied  with  writ 
ing  and  rewriting  my  new  poem,  and  then  as  usual  com 
ing  back  to  the  first  draught  as  by  far  better  than  any 
after-thought.  Those  who  have  seen  it  think  well  of  it. 
I  shall  contrive  to  send  it  you,  and  beg  you  not  to  read  it 
in  the  Atlantic — for  I  have  restored  to  it  (they  are  print 
ing  it  separately)  some  omitted  passages,  besides  correct 
ing  a  phrase  here  and  there  whose  faultiness  the  stronger 
light  of  print  revealed  to  me.  How  happy  I  was  while  I 
was  writing  it !  For  weeks  it  and  I  were  alone  in  the 
world,  till  Fanny  well-nigh  grew  jealous.  You  don't 
know,  my  dear  Charles,  what  it  is  to  have  sordid  cares,  to 
be  shivering  on  the  steep  edge  of  your  bank-book,  beyond 
which  lies  debt.  I  am  willing  to  say  it  to  you,  because 
I  know  I  should  have  written  more  and  better.  They 
say  it  is  good  to  be  obliged  to  do  what  we  don't  like,  but 
I  am  sure  it  is  not  good  for  me — it  wastes  so  much  time 
in  the  mere  forethought  of  what  you  are  to  do.  And 
then  I  sometimes  think  it  hard  that  I,  who  have  such  an 
immense  capacity  for  happiness,  should  so  often  be  un- 
IL-4 


50  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

happy.  I  recoil,  to  be  sure,  with  a  pretty  good  spring, 
but  I  have  learned  what  it  is  to  despond.  You  know  I 
don't  sentimentalize  about  myself  or  I  would  not  write 
this.  You  used  to  laugh  when  I  told  you  I  was  growing 
dull,  but  it  was  quite  true.  A  man  is  dull  who  can't  give 
himself  up  without  arriere-pensee  to  the  present.  I  do 
lose  myself  (to  find  myself)  in  writing  verse,  and  so  I 
mean  in  some  way  to  shape  myself  more  leisure  for  it, 
even  if  I  have  to  leave  Elmwood.  ...  I  agree  with  Eu 
ripides  that  it  is  fitting  — 


O.VTOQ    O.V 

T]v  £>£  /u>/ 
iKoQev  y 
av  aXXove  '   ovc)£  yap  S 


You  will  find  this  amplified  in  Juvenal's  Seventh  Sat 
ire.  You  see  I  am  suffering  a  professor  change  !  No  ; 
the  truth  is,  I  read  Euripides  through  very  carefully  last 
winter,  and  took  a  great  fancy  to  him.  ^Eschylus  for 
imagination  (perhaps  'twas  his  time  did  it  for  him), 
Sophocles  for  strength,  and  Euripides  for  facility,  inven 
tion,  and  go.  I  guess  him  to  be  the  more  simply  poet 
of  the  three.  Anyhow,  he  delights  me  much  as  Calde- 
ron  does,  not  for  any  power  of  thought,  but  for  the  per 
haps  rarer  power  of  pleasing.  As  one  slowly  grows  able 
to  think  for  himself,  he  begins  to  be  partial  towards  the 
fellows  who  merely  entertain.  Not  that  I  don't  find 
thought  too  in  Euripides.  .  .  . 

*  "  It  is  well  that  the  poet,  if  he  produce  songs,  should  produce 
them  with  joy,  for  if,  being  troubled  in  himself,  he  felt  it  not,  he 
could  not  delight  others  —  the  means  would  not  be  his."  —  The 
Suppliants,  182-85. 


1869]  TO   C.  E.  NORTON  51 

I  sometimes  feel  a  little  blue  over  the  outlook  here, 
with  our  penny-paper  universal  education  and  our  work- 
ingmen's  parties,  with  their  tremendous  lever  of  suf 
frage,  decrying  brains.  .  .  .  But  the  more  I  learn,  the 
more  am  I  impressed  with  the  wonderful  system  of 
checks  and  balances  which  history  reveals  (our  Consti- , 
tution  is  a  baby-house  to  it !),  and  the  more  my  confi 
dence  in  the  general  common-sense  and  honest  inten 
tion  of  mankind  increases.  When  I  reflect  what  changes 
I,  a  man  of  fifty,  have  seen,  how  old-fashioned  my  ways 
of  thinking  have  become,  that  I  have  lived  quietly 
through  that  awful  Revolution  of  the  Civil  War  (I  was 
cutting  my  hay  while  such  a  different  mowing  went  on 
at  Gettysburg) ;  in  short,  that  my  whole  life  has  been 
passed  in  what  they  call  an  age  of  transition,  the  signs 
of  the  times  cease  to  alarm  me,  and  seem  as  natural 
as  to  a  mother  the  teething  of  her  seventh  baby.  I 
take  great  comfort  in  God.  I  think  he  is  considerably 
amused  with  us  sometimes,  but  that  he  likes  us,  on  the 
whole,  and  would  not  let  us  get  at  the  match-box  so 
carelessly  as  he  does,  unless  he  knew  that  the  frame  of 
his  Universe  was  fire-proof.  How  many  times  have  I 
not  seen  the  fire-engines  of  Church  and  State  clanging 
and  lumbering  along  to  put  out — a  false  alarm  !  And 
when  the  heavens  are  cloudy  what  a  glare  can  be  cast 
by  a  burning  shanty  !  .  .  . 

Our  new  President*  of  the  College  is  winning  praise 
of  everybody.  I  take  the  inmost  satisfaction  in  him, 
and  think  him  just  the  best  man  that  could  have  been 
chosen.  We  have  a  real  Captain  at  last. 

*  President  Eliot. 


52  LETTERS   OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1869 

I  was  very  glad  to  get  your  account  of  Ferney.  No, 
I  never  was  there.  I  was  too  foolishly  true  to  my  faith 
in  the  blessing  of  Unexpectedness  to  visit  many  shrines. 
If  I  stumbled  on  them,  well  and  good.  But  I  would 
give  a  deal  now  that  I  had  seen  old  Michel  Eyquem's 
chateau — the  first  modern  that  ever  confronted  those 
hectoring  ancients  without  casting  down  his  eyes,  bless 
his  honest  old  soul !  Yes,  and  Ferney,  too.  For  we 
owe  half  our  freedom  now  to  the  leering  old  mocker 
with  an  earnest  purpose  in  spite  of  himself. 

I  wish,  with  all  my  heart,  I  could  see  you  for  a  mo 
ment  !  For  a  while  last  spring  I  thought  it  possible  I 
might  be  sent  abroad.  Hoar  was  strenuous  for  it,  and 
I  should  have  been  very  glad  of  it  then.  .  .  .  However, 
it  all  fell  through,  and  I  am  glad  it  did,  for  I  should  not 
have  written  my  new  poem,  and  I  hope  to  go  abroad 
on  my  own  charges  one  of  these  days,  if  I  can  only  sell 
my  land  before  I  am  too  old.  .  .  . 

Well,  I  have  been  getting  on  with  my  University 
lectures  as  well  as  I  could.  Cutler  was  ill,  and  I  had 
to  take  his  classes  in  French  and  German  —  losing  five 
weeks  thereby.  And  then  I  worried  myself  out  of  sleep 
and  appetite — and  then  I  concluded  to  do  the  best  I 
could  under  the  circumstances.  So  I  have  been  read 
ing  to  my  class  with  extempore  commentary.  I  wrote 
out  four  lectures  on  the  origin  of  the  romance  lingo 
and  romantic  poetry,  and  then  took  up  Ferabras  and 
Roland,  and  am  now  on  the  Trouveres.  Twenty  lect 
ures  scared  me,  and  now  my  next  is  the  sixteenth  and 
I  am  not  half  through !  .  .  . 

We   are   having   the   most   superb  winter  weather — 


1869]  TO    CHARLES    NORDHOFF  53 

though  I  have  lost  two  of  the  noblest  days  of  it  before 
my  fire.  (I  am  burning  Goody  Blake  fuel,  by  the  way, 
supplied  by  the  new  September  gale.)  I  do  not  envy  you 
your  olive-trees,  nor  even  your  view  of  Florence,  when 
I  look  out  on  the  smooth  white  of  my  fields,  with  the 
blue  shadows  of  the  trees  on  it.  Jane's  feeling  allusion 
to  the  Perseus  gave  me  a  twinge,  though.  I  should  like 
to  see  the  lovely  arches  of  that  loggia  again !  Tell  her 
not  to  turn  up  her  dear  nose  at  a  statue  the  story  of 
whose  casting  is  worth  half  the  statues  in  the  world — 
yes,  and  throw  in  the  poems  too.  .  .  . 

TO   CHARLES  NORDHOFF 

Elm  wood,  Dec.  15, 1869. 

.  .  .  You  cannot  set  too  high  a  value  on  the  character 
of  Judge  Hoar.  The  extraordinary  quickness  and  acute- 
ness,  the  flash  of  his  mind  (which  I  never  saw  matched 
but  in  Dr.  Holmes)  have  dazzled  and  bewildered  some 
people  so  that  they  were  blind  to  his  solid  qualities. 
Moreover,  you  know  there  are  people — I  am  almost  in 
clined  to  call  them  the  majority — who  are  afraid  of  wit, 
and  cannot  see  wisdom  unless  in  that  deliberate  move 
ment  of  thought  whose  every  step  they  can  accompany. 
I  have  known  Mr.  Hoar  for  more  than  thirty  years,  in 
timately  for  nearly  twenty,  and  it  is  the  solidity  of  the 
man,  his  courage,  and  his  integrity  that  I  value  most 
highly.  I  think  with  you  that  his  loss  would  be  irrep 
arable,  if  he  should  leave  the  cabinet  for  a  seat  on  the 
bench.  But  I  do  not  believe  this  to  be  so  probable  as 
the  Washington  correspondents  would  persuade  us.  I 


54  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1870 

do  not  speak  by  authority,  but  only  upon  inference 
from  what  I  know.  If  any  change  take  place,  it  will 
be  one  in  which  Judge  Hoar  heartily  concurs  and  which 
he  is  satisfied  will  be  for  the  good  of  the  country.  If 
any  one  is  the  confidential  adviser  of  the  President,  I 
guess  it  is  he.  .  .  . 

TO   E.  L.  GODKIN 

Elmwood,  Jan.  24,  1870. 

...  I  am  very  glad  you  found  anything  to  like  in 
my  poem,  though  I  am  apt  to  be  lenient  with  my 
friends  in  those  matters,  content  if  they  tolerate  me, 
and  leaving  what  I  write  to  that  perfectly  just  fate 
which  in  the  long  run  awaits  all  literature.  The  article 
of  Renan  I  had  not  then  read,  but  have  read  it  since 
with  a  great  deal  of  interest.  I  think  I  see  what  you 
mean. 

I  should  have  written  you  long  ago  but  for  the  scrap 
I  enclose — which  may  now  come  too  late  to  be  of  any 
use.  But  after  writing  that,  it  occurred  to  me  that  a 
somewhat  longer  article,  giving  some  account  of  the 
different  theories  as  to  what  the  Grail  was,  might  be 
interesting.  For  that  I  wanted  a  book  which  I  had 
sent  as  a  pattern  to  the  binder,  and  which  he  had  prom 
ised  me  on  Friday  last.  Of  course  it  did  not  come, 
and  so  I  send  my  correction  of  Sir  G.  B.'s  nonsense  as 
it  stands. 

You  cannot  choose  a  subject  into  which  you  will  not 
infuse  interest  by  thought  and  knowledge.  The  one 
you  mention  seems  to  me  a  remarkably  good  one,  and 
I  hope  I  shall  be  here  to  see  and  hear  you.  A  Boston 


1870]  TO   R.  S.   CHILTON  55 

audience  is  like  every  other  in  this — that  they  like  a 
serious  discussion  of  any  topic,  and  have  an  instinct 
whether  it  will  be  well  handled  or  no.  We  have  had  a 
course  of  mountebanks  this  winter,  and  people  will  be 
all  the  more  hungry  for  something  serious  and  instruc 
tive.  That  I  am  sure  you  will  give  them,  whatever  you 
talk  about.  .  .  . 

Many  thanks  for  the  cutting  from  the  Daily  News.  It 
was  just  what  I  wanted.  Every  one  of  Kemble's  pro 
nunciations  is  a  Yankeeism,  confirming  me  in  my  belief 
that  these  are  mostly  archaisms  and  not  barbarisms.  .  .  . 

TO   R.  S.    CHILTON 

Elmwood,  March  17,  1870. 

...  I  had  no  notion  what  a  conundrum  I  was  making 
when  I  used  the  word  "  decuman"* — or  decumane,  as  I 
should  have  spelt  it.  Where  I  got  the  word  I  am  sure 
I  don't  know,  nor  had  I  the  least  doubt  that  it  was  to 
be  found  in  all  the  dictionaries,  till  some  one  asked  me 
what  it  meant.  "Oh,"  I  said,  "  you'll  find  it  sure 
enough  in  Ovid  somewhere."  But  no :  Ovid  speaks 
only  of  the  tenth  wave.  "  Well,  then,"  I  insisted,  "try 
Lucan."  He  said  ditto  to  Ovid.  Then  I  hunted  it  up, 
and  my  Ducange  defines  it  fluctiis  vehementior  sic  nude 
dictus,  citing  examples  from  Festus  and  Tertullian. 
Perhaps  neither  a  lexicographer  nor  a  Father  of  the 
Church  is  very  good  authority  for  Latin,  but  in  Eng- 

*  In  "  The  Cathedral," 

"...  shocks  of  surf  that  clomb  and  fell, 
Spume-sliding  down  the  baffled  decuman." 


56  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1870 

lish  I  have  my  right  of  common,  and  I  wanted  the  word 
for  its  melodic  value.  So  1  used  it.  I  don't  write 
verses  with  the  dictionary  at  my  elbow — but  I  think  I 
shall  probably  come  across  the  word  somewhere  in  Eng 
lish  again,  where  I  no  doubt  met  with  it  years  ago.  A 
word  that  cleaves  to  the  memory  is  always  a  good 
word — that's  the  way  to  test  them.  .  .  . 


TO   LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Elmwood,  March  25,  1870. 

My  dear  Stephen, — Your  letter  found  me  with  a  pipe 
in  my  mouth  and  a  quarto  volume  containing  La  Che- 
-valerie  Ogier  VArdenois  on  my  knee — a  mediaeval  cu 
cumber  from  which  I  hope  to  extract  more  sunbeams 
than  from  many  others  on  which  I  have  experimented. 
The  fields  all  about  us  are  white  with  snow  (thermome 
ter  1 8°  this  morning),  and  the  weather  is  paying  us  off 
for  the  violets  we  had  in  blossom  on  the  6th  January. 
We  are  all  well  and  unchanged.  Mrs.  Lowell  and  I 
have  been  gadding  as  far  as  Washington — our  business 
being  to  deliver  some  lectures  in  Baltimore.  In  Wash 
ington  we  spent  three  days — quite  long  enough — and  if 
the  country  depended  on  its  representatives  for  its  sal 
vation,  I  should  despair  of  it.  I  liked  Grant,  and  was 
struck  with  the  pathos  of  his  face ;  a  puzzled  pathos,  as 
of  a  man  with  a  problem  before  him  of  which  he  does 
not  understand  the  terms.  But  Washington  left  a  very 
bad  taste  in  my  mouth,  and  I  was  glad  to  be  out  of  it 
and  back  again  with  pleasant  old  Mrs.  K in  Balti 
more.  Of  course,  I  had  a  good  time  with  Judge  Hoar. 


1870]  TO    LESLIE   STEPHEN  57 

He  and  Mr.  Cox  struck  me  as  the  only  really  strong 
men  in  the  Cabinet. 

I  am  glad  you  liked  "  The  Cathedral,"  and  sorry  for 
anything  in  it  you  didn't  like.  The  name  was  none  of 
my  choosing.  I  called  it  "  A  Day  at  Chartres,"  and 
Fields  rechristened  it.  You  see  with  my  name  the 
episode  of  the  Britons  comes  in  naturally  enough  (it  is 
historical,  by  the  way).  The  truth  is,  I  had  no  notion 
of  being  satirical,  but  wrote  what  I  did  just  as  I  might 
have  said  it  to  you  in  badinage.  But,  of  course,  the 
tone  is  lost  in  print.  Anyhow,  there  is  one  Englishman 
I  am  fond  enough  of  to  balance  any  spite  I  might  have 
against  others,  as  you  know.  But  I  haven't  a  particle. 
If  I  had  met  two  of  my  own  countrymen  at  Chartres, 
I  should  have  been  quite  as  free  with  them.  .  .  . 

How  I  should  like  to  come  over  and  pay  you  a  visit ! 
But  it  seems  more  and  more  inaccessible,  that  other 
side  of  the  water.  Whenever  I  can  turn  my  land  into 
money  I  shall  come  across,  but  at  present  it  is  all  I 
can  do  to  pay  the  cost  of  staying  where  I  am.  What 
with  taxes  and  tariffs,  and  the  general  high  prices  in 
duced  by  the  vulgar  profuseness  of  my  countrymen,  a 
moderate  income  is  fast  becoming  a  narrow  one  in 
these  parts.  If  I  only  had  a  few  cadetships  to  sell ! 
However,  maybe  one  of  these  days  a  gray  old  boy 
will  be  trying  to  make  out  through  his  double  eye 
glass  which  is  No.  16  in  Onslow  Gardens,  and  about 
half  an  hour  thereafter  Mrs.  Stephen  will  be  wonder 
ing  whence  comes  that  nasty  smell  of  tobacco. 

Affectionately  ever, 

J.  R.  L. 


58  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  1870] 

TO   W.   D.   HOWELLS 

Elmwood,  Friday. 

My  dear  Howells, — Who  writes  to  me  casts  his  bread 
on  the  waters.  The  carrier  handed  me  your  note  on 
the  road.  I  put  it  into  my  pocket  and  straightway 
forgot  all  about  it. 

We  are  told  in  a  book  (which  I  still  look  on  as  quite 
up  to  the  level  of  any  that  have  come  out  in  my  time) 
to  do  whatever  we  do  with  all  our  might.  That's  the 
way  I  forget  my  letters,  and  I  hope  I  shall  find  my  re 
ward  in  the  next  world,  for  I  certainly  don't  in  this. 

On  the  contrary,  happening  to  thrust  my  hands  into 
my  pockets  (I  don't  know  why — there  is  seldom  any 
thing  in  them),  I  found  your  note,  and  it  stuck  into  me 
like  an  unexpected  pin  in  the  girdle  of  Saccharissa.  If 
you  didn't  want  our  company,  you  might  want  our 
room  !  Therefore,  to  be  categorical,  /  am  coming,  as 
I  said  I  would. 

Mrs.  Lowell  has  unhappily  an  inflamed  eye,  and  is 
very  sorry  (for  she  prefers  "  My  Summer  in  a  Garden," 
I  fear,  to  some  more  solid  works  done  under  her  imme 
diate  supervision),  and  Miss  Dunlap  is  in  Portland.  So 
the  whole  of  our  family  can  sit  in  one  chair,  like  St. 
Thomas  Aquinas's  angels. 

With  kind  regards  to  Mrs.  Howells, 

Affectionately  yours  always, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   THOMAS   HUGHES 

Elmwood,  June  n,  1870. 
My  dear  Hughes, — The  papers  tell  me  you  are  com- 


1870]  TO   THOMAS    HUGHES  59 

ing  hither,  but  I  fear  the  news  is  too  good  to  be  true. 
But  if  you  are,  you  know  who  will  be  delighted  to  take 
you  by  the  hand  and  to  say  "  Casa  usted"  with  more 
than  Spanish  sincerity. 

If  this  reaches  you  in  time,  pray  let  me  hear  from 
you  as  to  your  plans. 

Our  newspapers  read  like  an  old-fashioned  Newsletter 
with  their  rumors  of  war.  The  spirit  of  all  the  defunct 
quidnuncs  seems  to  have  entered  the  man  who  makes 
up  the  telegrams  for  the  American  press.  But  what 
an  impudent  scoundrel  Louis  Napoleon  is,  to  be  sure ! 

Come  early  and  come  often,  as  they  say  to  the  voters 
in  New  York. 

In  great  haste 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   THE    SAME 

Elmwood,  July  18,  1870. 

My  dear  Hughes, — I  hope  you  will  come  hither  as 
early  as  you  can,  for  it  will  be  vacation,  and  I  can  see 
more  of  you.  And  I  want  you  to  see  my  trees  with 
the  leaves  on — especially  my  English  elms,  which  I 
think  no  small  beer  of.  I  hope  by  the  middle  of  Au 
gust  our  worst  heats  will  be  over,  for  they  began  early 
this  year.  As  I  write  the  thermometer  is  92  deg. 

Already  I  have  an  invitation  for  you  from  a  friend 
of  mine  at  Newport  (our  great  watering-place)  whom  I 
would  like  you  to  know.  It  is  a  good  place  to  see  our 
people — "  shoddy "  and  other.  While  you  are  here,  I 
will  take  you  to  Concord  and  show  you  such  lions  as 


Go  LETTERS    OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1870 

we  have.  We  shall  be  delighted  to  see  you  and  keep 
you  as  long  as  you  can  stay. 

By  the  way,  I  was  truly  sorry  not  to  see  your  friend 
Mr.  Lawson  again.  He  interested  me  very  much  with 
his  simple  sincere  ways.  I  owe  you  a  great  deal  also  for 
letting  me  know  Stephen,  whom  I  soon  learned  to  love. 

This  war  in  Europe  shocks  me  deeply.  But  I  can 
now  understand  better  than  before,  perhaps,  the  feel 
ing  of  so  many  Englishmen  about  "our"  war.  How 
ever,  I  never  quarrelled  with  the  feeling,  but  with  the 
brutal  way  in  which  it  was  expressed. 

"This"  war  seems  begun  in  the  most  wanton  selfish 
ness,  and  I  hope  that  the  charlatan  who  has  ridden 
France  for  so  many  years  will  at  least  get  his  quietus. 
I  have  never  credited  him  with  any  greatness  but  un- 
scrupulousness,  an  immense  advantage  with  five  hun 
dred  thousand  bayonets  behind  it. 

I  have  been  deeply  interested  in  your  Irish  Land  bill. 
It  concerns  us  also,  for  one  of  the  worst  diseases  we 
have  to  cure  in  the  Irish  who  come  over  here  is  their 
belief  that  the  laws  are  their  natural  enemies.  Give 
them  property  (or  a  chance  at  it)  in  the  land,  "  coute 
qu'il  coute."  Fixity  of  tenure  is  only  a  palliative.  It 
won't  stand  against  the  influences  that  are  in  the  air 
nowadays.  It  was  tried  here  on  the  Van  Rensselaers' 
property  in  New  York,  and  led  to  the  "Anti-rent  war." 
You  are  doing  noble  things,  and  in  that  practical  and 
manly  way  which  must  always  make  England  respect 
able  in  the  eyes  of  foreigners.  England  is  the  only 
country  where  things  get  a  thorough  discussion  before 
the  people  and  by  the  best  men. 


1870]  TO    THOMAS    HUGHES  6 1 

Good-by  and  God  bless  you  till  I    take  you  by  the 

hand. 

Always  heartily  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


TO    THE    SAME 

Elmwood,  Aug.  13,  1870. 

My  dear  Hughes, — On  one  account  alone  can  I  say 
I  am  glad  you  are  coming  later.  I  hope  by  the  time 
you  get  here  it  will  be  cooler.  The  three  children  in 
the  furnace  never  saw  anything  worse  than  we  have 
had  for  a  month. 

Of  course,  you  must  suit  your  plans  to  your  change 
of  route.  All  I  ask  is  to  have  you  here  before  vaca 
tion  is  over,  2Qth  Sept.  As  to  lecturing — the  only  ar 
gument  in  its  favor  is  that  it  is  the  easiest  way  of 
turning  an  honest  penny  for  a  man  who  is  used  to 
speaking  in  public.  If  you  should  look  at  it  from 
this  point  of  view,  you  might  easily  make  an  inter 
esting  and  instructive  lecture  on  the  labor -reform 
movements  in  England.  But  I  would  not  do  it  un 
der  five  hundred  dollars  a  night. 

I  enclose  a  letter  for  you  which  came  this  morning 
from  Mr.  Forbes,*  whom  perhaps  you  saw  in  England. 
At  any  rate,  he  is  a  man  worth  knowing  in  every  way. 

It  is  very  pleasant  to  be  writing  to  you  on  this  side 
of  the  water. 

Quebec,  by  the  way,  is  better  than  most  things  in 
Europe  by  its  startling  contrast.  A  bit  of  Louis  Qua- 

*  Mr.  John  M.  Forbes. 


62  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1870 

torze  set  down  bodily  in  the  middle  of  the  nineteenth 
century. 

The  sooner  you   come  the  better,  is  all  I  have  to 

say. 

Yours  always, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Elmwood,  Aug.  28,  1870. 

...  I  had  hoped  during  vacation  to  fill  some  gaps 
in  my  "  Cathedral,"  but  work  has  been  out  of  the  ques 
tion.  I  have  read  a  good  deal  of  mediaeval  French  po 
etry  in  the  way  of  business — and  nothing  more.  But 
my  hopes  of  freedom  brighten  a  little.  Already  there 
are  inquiries  after  my  land,  and  whenever  I  can  sell  it 
for  enough  to  live  on  modestly  I  shall  do  it.  Onecan|t 
write  poetry  unless  he  give  his  whole  life  to  itT  aryj,  J 
long  to  do  something  yet  that  shal^  be  as  ^yod  as^J 
cam  Now  and  then  I  get  a  bit  impatient,  and  I  fear 
I  wrote  you  last  winter  in  some  such  mood.  But  you 
know  I  am  pretty  reasonable,  and  always  strive  to  look 
at  myself  and  my  fortune  from  another  man's  point  of 
view.  I  do  not  think  it  so  hard  for  a  solitary  to  see 
himself  as  others  see  him — the  difficult  thing  is  to  act 
in  accordance  with  your  knowledge,  an  art  I  have  never 
acquired.  I  believe  no  criticism  has  ever  been  made 
on  what  I  write  (I  mean  no  just  one)  that  I  had  not 
made  before,  and  let  slip  through  my  fingers.  .  .  . 

The  war  in  Europe  has  interested  me  profoundly, 
and  if  the  Prussians  don't  win,  then  the  laws  of  the 
great  game  have  been  changed,  for  a  moral  enthusiasm 


1870]  TO    MISS   NORTON  63 

always  makes  battalions  heavier  than  a  courage  that 
rises  like  an  exhilaration  from  heated  blood.  More 
over,  as  against  the  Gaul  I  believe  in  the  Teuton. 
And  just  now  I  wish  to  believe  in  him,  for  he  repre 
sents  civilization.  Anything  that  knocks  the  nonsense 
out  of  Johnny  Crapaud  will  be  a  blessing  to  the  world. 
How  like  a  gentleman  the  King  of  Prussia  shows  in 
his  despatches  alongside  of  that  fanfaron  Napoleon ! 
It  refreshes  me  wonderfully,  also,  to  see  that  the 
French  don't  show  the  quiet  front  under  reverses  that 
we  did,  and  our  trial  was  one  of  years. 

.  .  .  My  only  news  (we  never  have  any  in  Cam 
bridge,  and  my  cordon  sanitaire  of  trees  secludes  me 
from  such  gossip  as  buzzes  down  in  the  village)  is  a 
visit  from  Tom  Hughes,  who  is  as  frank  and  hearty 
and  natural  a  dear  good  fellow  as  could  be  wished. 
He  is  now  at  Naushon,  and  comes  back  to  us  on  Tues 
day.  Wednesday  we  go  to  Concord,  to  dine  with  Hoar. 
Hughes  will  leave  us  sooner  than  I  like,  in  order  to  be 
back  here  for  the  laying  of  the  corner-stone  of  Memorial 
Hall,  29th  September.  .  .  . 


TO   MISS  NORTON 

Elmwood,  Oct.  14,  1870. 

.  .  .  We  have  been  having  a  truly  delightful  visit 
from  Hughes,  who  was  as  charming  as  man  can  be — 
so  simple,  hearty,  and  affectionate.  He  was  with  us  a 
fortnight,  off  and  on,  and  we  liked  him  better  and  bet 
ter.  His  only  fault  is  that  he  will  keep  quoting  the 
"  Biglow  Papers,"  which  he  knows  vastly  better  than 


64  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1870 

I.  I  was  astonished  to  find  what  a  heap  of  wisdom 
was  accumulated  in  those  admirable  volumes.  There 
never  was  an  Englishman  who  took  this  country  so 
naturally  as  Hughes.  I  was  really  saddened  to  part 
with  him — it  was  saying  good -by  to  sunshine.  We 
have  had  other  agreeable  Britons  here  this  autumn. 
Bryce  I  especially  liked,  and  Hughes  brought  with  him 
a  very  nice  young  Rawlins. 

All  summer  I  have  been  studying  old  French  metrical 
romances  and  the  like,  and  have  done  an  immense  deal 
of  reading — for  which  I  have  a  talent,  if  for  nothing 
else.  During  vacation — a  good  part  of  it — I  must  have 
averaged  my  twelve  hours  a  day.  And  the  use  of  it  all  ? 
— for  some  lectures  which  I  am  reading  to  about  a  score 
of  young  women  twice  a  week  during  the  term.  Think 
of  me  with  thirty-six  lectures  on  my  mind,  and  you  will 
understand  wThy  I  am  getting  a  little  thin.  .  .  .  What 
good  all  this  lumber  will  do  me  I  find  it  hard  to  say.  I 
long  to  give  myself  to  poetry  again  before  I  am  so  old 
that  I  have  only  thought  and  no  music  left.  I  can't 
say,  as  Milton  did,  "  I  am  growing  my  wings."  I  held 
back  a  copy  of  "  The  Cathedral,"  that  I  might  write 
into  it  a  passage  or  two,  and  now,  after  all,  I  have  sent 
it  by  Theodora  without  them.  My  vein  would  not  flow 
this  summer.  The  heat  dried  up  that  with  the  other 
springs.  .  .  . 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Elmwood,  Oct.  15,  1870. 

...  Of  course  it  could  not  but  be  very  pleasant  to  me 
that  Ruskin  found  something  to  like  in  "  The  Cathedral." 


1870]  TO    C.   E.   NORTON  65 

There  is  nobody  whom  I  would  rather  please,  for  he  is 
catholic  enough  to  like  both  Dante  and  Scott.  I  am 
glad  to  find  also  that  the  poem  sticks.  Those  who  liked 
it  at  first  like  it  still,  some  of  them  better  than  ever, 
some  extravagantly.  At  any  rate,  it  wrote  itself ;  all  of 
a  sudden  it  was  there,  and  that  is  something  in  its  favor. 
Now  Ruskin  wants  me  to  go  over  it  with  the  file.  That 
is  just  what  I  did.  I  wrote  in  pencil,  then  copied  it  out 
in  ink,  and  worked  over  it  as  I  never  worked  over  any 
thing  before.  I  may  fairly  say  there  is  not  a  word  in  it 
over  which  I  have  not  thought,  not  an  objection  which  I 
did  not  foresee  and  maturely  consider.  Well,  in  my  sec 
ond  copy  I  made  many  changes,  as  I  thought  for  the 
better,  and  then  put  it  away  in  my  desk  to  cool  for  three 
weeks  or  so.  When  I  came  to  print  it,  I  put  back,  I 
believe,  every  one  of  the  original  readings  which  I  had 
changed.  Those  which  had  come  to  me  were  far  better 
than  those  I  had  come  at.  Only  one  change  I  made  (for 
the  worse),  in  order  to  escape  a  rhyme  that  had  crept 
in  without  my  catching  it. 

Now  for  Ruskin's  criticisms.  As  to  words,  I  am  some 
thing  of  a  purist,  though  I  like  best  the  word  that  best 
says  the  thing.  (You  know  I  have  studied  lingo  a  little.) 
I  am  fifty-one  years  old,  however,  and  have  in  some  sense 
won  my  spurs.  I  claim  the  right  now  and  then  to  knight 
a  plebeian  word  for  good  service  in  the  field.  But  it  will 
almost  always  turn  out  that  it  has  after  all  good  blood  in 
its  veins,  and  can  prove  its  claim  to  be  put  in  the  saddle. 
Rote  is  a  familiar  word  all  along  our  seaboard  to  express 
that  dull  and  continuous  burden  of  the  sea  heard  inland 
before  or  after  a  great  storm.  The  root  of  the  word  may 
II.-5 


66  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1870 

be  in  rumpere,  but  is  more  likely  in  rotare,  from  the 
identity  of  this  sea-music  with  that  of  the  rote — a  kind 
of  hurdy-gurdy  with  which  the  jongleurs  accompanied 
their  song.  It  is  one  of  those  Elizabethan  words  which 
we  New-Englanders  have  preserved  along  with  so  many 
others.  It  occurs  in  the  "  Mirror  for  Magistrates,"  "  the 
sea's  rote"  which  Nares,  not  understanding,  would  change 
to  rore!  It  is  not  to  be  found  in  any  provincial  glos 
sary,  but  I  caught  it  alive  at  Beverly  and  the  Isles  of 
Shoals.  Like  "  mobbled  queen,"  'tis  "good." 

Whiff  Ruskin  calls  "  an  American  elevation  of  English 
lower  word."  Not  a  bit  of  it.  I  have  always  thought 
"  the  whiff  and  wind  of  his  fell  sword  "  in  "  Hamlet  "  rath 
er  fine  than  otherwise.  Ben  also  has  the  word.  "  Down- 
shod  "  means  shod  with  down.  I  doubted  about  this  word 
myself — but  I  wanted  it.  As  to  "  misgave,"  the  older  poets 
used  it  as  an  active  verb,  and  I  have  done  with  it  as  all 
poets  do  with  language.  My  meaning  is  clear,  and  that  is 
the  main  point.  His  objection  to  "  spume-sliding  down 
the  baffled  decuman  "  I  do  not  understand.  I  think  if  he 
will  read  over  his  "ridiculous  Germanism"  (p.  13  seq.) 
with  the  context  he  will  see  that  he  has  misunderstood 
me.  (By  the  way,  "  in  our  life  alone  doth  Nature  live  " 
is  Coleridge's,  not  Wordsworth's.)  I  never  hesitate  to 
say  anything  I  have  honestly  felt  because  some  one 
may  have  said  it  before,  for  it  will  always  get  a  new 
color  from  the  new  mind,  but  here  I  was  not  saying  the 
same  thing  by  a  great  deal.  Nihil  in  intellectu  quod  non 
prius  in  sensu  would  be  nearer  —  though  not  what  I 
meant.  Nature  (inanimate),  which  is  the  image  of  the 
mind,  sympathizes  with  all  our  moods.  I  would  have 


1870]  TO    THOMAS    HUGHES  67 

numbered  the  lines  as  Ruskin  suggests,  only  it  looks 
as  if  one  valued  them  too  much.  That  sort  of  thing 
should  be  posthumous.  You  may  do  it  for  me,  my  dear 
Charles,  if  my  poems  survive  me.  Two  dropt  stitches 
I  must  take  up  which  I  notice  on  looking  over  what 
I  have  written.  Ruskin  surely  remembers  Carlyle's 
"  whiff  of  grapeshot."  That  is  one.  The  other  is  that 
rote  may  quite  as  well  be  from  the  Icelandic  at  hriota 
—  to  snore ;  but  my  studies  more  and  more  persuade  me 
that  where  there  is  in  English  a  Teutonic  and  a  Ro 
mance  root  meaning  the  same  thing,  the  two  are  apt  to 
melt  into  each  other  so  as  to  make  it  hard  to  say  from 
which  our  word  comes.  .  .  . 

TO   THOMAS   HUGHES 

Elmwood,  Oct.  18,  1870. 

My  dear  old  Friend, — Parting  with  you  was  like  say 
ing  good-by  to  sunshine.  As  I  took  my  solitary  whiff 
o'  baccy,  after  I  got  home,  my  study  looked  bare,  and 
my  old  cronies  on  the  shelves  could  not  make  up  to 
me  for  my  new  loss.  I  sat  with  my  book  on  my  knee 
and  mused  with  a  queer  feeling  about  my  eyelids  now 
and  then.  And  yet  you  have  left  so  much  behind  that 
is  precious  to  me,  that  by  and  by  I  know  that  my  room 
will  have  a  virtue  in  it  never  there  before,  because  of 
your  presence.  And  now  it  seems  so  short — a  hail  at 
sea  with  a  God-speed  and  no  more.  But  you  will  come 
back,  I  am  sure.  We  all  send  love  and  regret. 

The  day  after  you  left  us  Rose  discovered  your  thin 
coat,  which  she  called  a  "  duster."  I  had  half  a  mind 


68  LETTERS   OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1870 

to  confiscate  it,  it  was  such  a  good  one ;  but  on  sec 
ond  thoughts  concluded  that  that  was,  on  the  whole, 
as  good  a  reason  for  sending  it  back  as  for  keeping 
it. 

Letters  continue  to  pour  in,  and  I  enclose  them  with 
the  coat  to  No.  9  Lexington  Avenue.  There  came 
also  a  telegram  from  Montreal,  which  I  felt  justified 
in  opening.  From  what  you  had  told  me,  I  had  no 
doubt  that  you  had  already  answered  in  a  letter.  It 
only  said  that  they  should  expect  you  on  Tuesday. 

As  you  will  no  doubt  see  Bryce  and  Dicey  in  Lon 
don,  pray  tell  them  how  sorry  I  was  not  to  see  more  of 
them.  They  left  many  friends  in  Cambridge.  If  all 
Englishmen  could  only  take  America  so  "  naturally " 
as  you  did !  I  think,  if  it  could  be  so,  there  would 
never  be  any  risk  of  war.  That  reminds  me  that  I  am 
sure  your  address  has  done  great  good.  It  has  set  peo 
ple  thinking,  and  that  is  all  we  need.  I  enclose  a  little 
poem  from  to-day's  Advertiser  which  pleased  me.  I 
do  not  know  who  "  H.  T.  B."  is,  but  I  think  his  verses 
very  sweet,  and  Mrs.  Hughes  may  like  to  see  them. 
I  would  rather  have  the  kind  of  welcome  that  met  you 
in  this  country  than  all  the  shouts  of  all  the  crowds  on 
the  "  Via  Sacra  "  of  Fame.  There  was  "  love  "  in  it, 
you  beloved  old  boy,  and  no  man  ever  earns  that  for 
nothing — unless  now  and  then  from  a  woman.  By 
Jove !  it  is  worth  writing  books  for — such  a  feeling  as 
that.  .  .  . 

I  am  holding  "  Good-by  "  at  arm's  length  as  long  as 
I  can,  but  I  must  come  to  it.  Give  my  kindest  regards 
to  Rawlins,  and  take  all  my  heart  yourself.  God  bless 


1871]  TO   THOMAS    HUGHES  69 

you.     A  pleasant  voyage,  and  all  well  in  the  nest  when 
you  get  back  to  it. 

Always  most  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   THE   SAME 

Elmwood,  Feb.  7,  1871. 

My  dear  Friend, — That  friendship  should  be  able  to 
endure  silence  without  suspicion  is  the  surest  touch 
stone  of  its  sufficiency.  I  did  not  expect  to  hear  from 
you  very  soon  after  your  return,  for  I  knew  how  busy 
you  must  be  in  many  ways.  But  I  was  none  the  less 
glad  to  get  your  letter  with  assurance  of  your  welfare. 
I  should  have  written  you,  indeed,  before  this,  but  that 
I  have  been  away  from  home  three  weeks  reading  some 
lectures  in  Baltimore. 

We  are  all  well  except  Mabel's  Meg,  who  has  fallen 
lame.  After  our  warm  autumn,  Winter,  as  usual,  has 
put  his  screws  on,  and  when  I  walk  it  is  over  five  feet 
thick  of  cast  iron — for  we  have  little  snow.  Several 
times  within  the  last  fortnight  the  thermometer  has 
marked  — 8°  Fahrenheit.  But  Cambridge  is  odd  in 
this  respect.  Owing  to  our  ice-trade  the  poorer  peo 
ple  always  bless  a  hard  winter,  which  gives  them  work 
when  other  sources  fail.  Mild  weather  is  always 
looked  on  as  a  misfortune. 

I  was  much  interested  in  your  mutual-enlightenment 
scheme,  though  I  am  not  at  all  clear  as  to  its  doing 
good  here — I  mean,  whether  a  similar  committee  would 
be  advisable  on  this  side.  Our  people  are  so  sensitive 
ly  jealous  just  now  that  I  fear  it  might  arouse  opposi- 


7O  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1871 

tion  of  an  ignorant  sort,  and  so  do  more  harm  than 
good.  I  think  they  are  settling  down  to  a  more  ration 
al  view  of  the  Alabama  matter,  and  if  you  can  keep 
the  hotheads  in  Canada  within  bounds,  all  will  go  well. 
A  very  little  more  folly  on  their  part  would  make  "  a 
pretty  kettle  of  fish,"  if  I  know  my  countrymen.  Even 
granting  the  claim  of  the  Dominion  to  be  legally  ad 
missible  (which  I  doubt),  you  can  no  more  persuade  the 
bulk  of  our  people  of  it  than  you  were  able  to  convince 
the  English  peasant  of  the  righteousness  of  game  laws. 
Moreover,  and  this  heightens  the  danger,  our  fishermen 
are  the  class  which  among  us  most  nearly  resembles 
the  borderers  of  the  West,  and  they  are  the  direct  de 
scendants  of  the  men  who  suffered  by  British  impress 
ment  before  1812.  They  have  inherited  a  very  bitter 
legacy  of  hatred,  and  might  too  easily  be  led  by  an  un 
scrupulous  demagogue  like  Butler  to  make  reprisals. 
When  I  remember  how  like  thunder  out  of  a  clear  sky 
war  comes  nowadays,  I  wish  to  get  drawn  off  from  the  at 
mosphere  as  much  of  the  ominous  electricity  as  may  be. 

I  think  it  fortunate  that  Schenk  (pronounced  Skenk) 
is  a  Western  man,  because  he  will  be  free  at  least  from 
any  commercial  animosity.  He  is  said  to  be  able,  and  he 
will  represent  an  administration  just  now  especially  hos 
tile  to  Sumner  and  his  theory  of  constructive  damages. 

The  Senate  (who  are  the  real  arbiters  after  all)  may 
be  suspected  of  being  in  somewhat  the  same  mood. 
Except  for  the  fishery  business,  I  am  not  inclined  to 
agree  with  those  who  see  danger  in  delay.  Already 
the  discussion  of  the  law -points  of  neutrality  has 
brought  our  people  to  a  more  reasonable  frame  of 


1871]  TO   J.  T.  FIELDS  71 

mind  about  the  rights  and  duties  of  neutrals.  The 
Irish  element,  I  think,  will  never  affect  our  foreign 
politics  —  nor  our  domestic,  for  that  matter,  except 
that  through  New  York  it  may  turn  the  scale  of  the 
next  national  election  in  favor  of  the  Democrats ;  but 
the  Democrats,  once  in  power,  will  be  in  no  more  dan 
ger  of  rushing  into  a  war  with  England  than  the  Re 
publicans — whom  office  has  already  largely  corrupted.  I 
still  think  (as  I  told  you  here)  that  a  war  would  be  more 
disastrous  to  us  than  to  you,  though  the  direst  misfor 
tune  for  both  and  for  the  advance  of  enlightened  freedom. 

As  for  the  war  in  Europe,  I  am  a  Prussian,  and  be 
lieve  it  to  be  in  the  interest  of  civilization  that  a  pub 
lic  bully  (as  France  had  become)  should  be  soundly 
thrashed.  The  French  will  never  be  safe  neighbors 
till  the  taint  of  Louis  XIV.  is  drawn  out  of  their  blood. 
If  the  Prussian  lancet  shall  effect  this  I  shall  rejoice. 
The  misery  I  feel  as  keenly  as  anybody,  but  I  remember 
that  it  might  have  been,  but  for  German  energy  and  cour 
age,  even  worse  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhine.  The 
Gaul  has  never  been  an  amiable  conqueror,  and  the  Teu 
ton  has  the  longest  historical  memory  among  men.  .  .  . 

Elmwood  expects  you  longingly  again.      With  the 

heart's  affection, 

Yours  always, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   J.   T.  FIELDS 

Elmwood,  Feb.  IT,  1871. 

,  .  .  I  am  looking  forward  to  your  next  installment 
of  Hawthorne.  I  read  the  first  with  great  interest,  and 


72  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1871 

wish  you  would  give  us  more  rather  than  less — espe 
cially  in  extracts  from  his  letters.  We  don't  seem 
likely  to  get  a  biography,  and  these  in  some  sort  sup 
ply  it.  ...  Be  sure  and  don't  leave  out  anything  be 
cause  it  seems  trifling,  for  it  is  out  of  these  trifles  only 
that  it  is  possible  to  reconstruct  character  sometimes, 
if  not  always.  I  think  your  method  is  above  criticism, 
and  you  have  hit  the  true  channel  between  the  Cha- 
rybdis  of  reticence  and  the  Scylla  of  gossip,  as  Dr.  Parr 
would  have  said.  .  .  . 

TO    LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Elmwood,  July  31,  1871. 

...  I  have  been  selling  my  birthright  for  a  mess  of 
pottage,  and  find  it  so  savory  that  I  side  with  Esau 
more  than  ever.  I  don't  know  whether  you  ever  sus 
pected  it  (I  hope  you  didn't — for  I  have  noticed  that 
you  English  use  "  beggar"  as  a  clincher  in  the  way  of 
contempt),  but  I  have  been  hitherto  pretty  well  pinched 
for  money.  Our  taxes  are  so  heavy  that  nobody  since 
Atlas  ever  carried  such  a  burthen  of  real  estate  as  I, 
and  he  wouldn't  if  he  had  been  compelled  to  pay  for  it. 
Well,  I  have  just  (2Qth  July  was  the  happy  date)  been 
selling  all  that  I  held  in  my  own  right  for  enough  to 
give  me  about  $5000  a  year  and  Mabel  about  $1400 
more.  This  isn't  much,  according  to  present  standards, 
but  is  as  much  as  I  want.  It  is  a  life-preserver  that 
will  keep  my  head  above  water,  and  the  swimming  I 
will  do  for  myself.  Then,  I  am  going  to  have  Elmwood 
divided.  It  is  a  bitter  dose,  but  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  to  it,  and  make  myself  believe  that  I  shall  like 


1871]  TO    LESLIE    STEPHEN  73 

the  house  with  a  couple  of  acres  as  well  as  I  do  now 
with  twelve  times  as  much.  The  city  has  crept  up  to 
me,  curbstones  are  feeling  after  and  swooping  upon 
the  green  edges  of  the  roads,  and  the  calf  I  used  to 
carry  is  grown  to  a  bull.  I  have  gone  over  to  the 
enemy  and  become  a  capitalist.  I  denounce  the  Com 
mune  with  the  best  of  them,  and  find  it  extremely 
natural  that  I  should  be  natus  consumer e  fruges — which 
means  that  I  shall  now  grow  consumedly  frugal.  I  have 
weighed  out  the  reasons  (so  far  as  I  could  decipher 
them)  which  you  give  me  for  coming  over,  and  think 
them  excellent — especially  does  your  lavish  offer  of  five 
shillings  to  sit  in  a  certain  chair  weigh  with  me,  and  I 
shall  certainly  claim  it.  The  reasons  I  couldn't  read 
(for  you  became  particularly  runic  or  cuneiform  or 
something  worse  in  this  passage)  I  took  to  be  of  some 
loving  sort  or  other,  and  reciprocate  them  heartily.  If 
everything  goes  well  I  mean  to  go  abroad  in  a  year 
from  last  June — that  is,  at  the  end  of  our  next  college 
year,  and  if  I  do,  you  will  see  a  youth  you  never  saw 
before.  Property,  sir,  is  the  Ponce-de-Leon  fountain 
of  youth.  I  am  already  regenerate.  I  am  the  master 
of  forty  legions.  I  will  kick  the  vizier's  daughter,  my 
wife,  for  a  constitutional.  And  now  cometh  L.  S.  (I 
relish  your  initials  now,  and  mentally  add  a  D.  to 
them),  and  prayeth  that  I  would  write  some  verses  for 
his  magazine!*  I  am  given  to  understand  by  several 
gentlemen  in  easy  circumstances  (with  whom  I  discuss 
the  prices  of  stocks  and  the  dangers  of  universal  suf- 

*  Mr.  Stephen  had  lately  become  editor  of  the  Cornhill  Maga 
zine. 


74  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1871 

frage)  that  poets  are  notorious  for  nothing  so  much  as 
the  smallness  of  their  balance  at  the  banker's.  Is  there 
no  danger  of  my  losing  caste  by  meddling  in  such  mat 
ters — I  who  am  casting  about  where  I  can  steal  a  rail 
way  and  share  with  Jem  Fisk  the  applauses  of  my 
grateful  countrymen  ?  Bethink  yourself,  my  dear  Ste 
phen.  Put  yourself  for  a  moment  in  my  position.  I 
have  a  great  affection  for  you,  and  shall  lay  it  to  the 
small  experience  of  the  world  natural  to  the  remote 
corner  in  which  you  dwell.  I  have  no  doubt  it  was 
kindly  meant.  A  few  Latin  versicles,  fruits  of  an  ele 
gant  leisure,  I  might  send  you  perhaps — but  English — 
I  must  ask  Vanderbilt's  opinion.  I  will  bear  it  in  mind. 
I  should  have  sent  "  My  Study  Windows  "  (a  hateful 
name,  forced  upon  me  by  the  publishers),  but  was  wait 
ing  for  a  new  edition,  in  which  the  misprints  are  cor 
rected.  I  quite  agree  with  you  about  Carlyle,  and 
perhaps  was  harder  on  him  than  I  meant,  because  I 
was  fighting  against  a  secret  partiality.  I  go  off  also 
in  a  day  or  two  on  a  fishing  jaunt,  to  get  rid  of  a  pain 
in  the  head  that  has  been  bothering  me.  .  .  . 


TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Elmwood,  Sept.  5,  1871. 

.  .  .  Yesterday,  as  I  was  walking  down  the  Beacon 
Street  mall,  the  yellowing  leaves  were  dozily  drifting  from 
the  trees,  and  the  sentiment  of  autumn  was  in  all  the  air ; 
though  the  day,  despite  an  easterly  breeze,  was  sultry. 
I  enjoyed  the  laziness  of  everything  to  the  core,  and 
sauntered  as  idly  as  a  thistledown,  thinking  with  a 


1871]  TO    C.   E.   NORTON  75 

pleasurable  twinge  of  sympathy  that  th'e  fall  was  be 
ginning  for  me  also,  and  that  the  buds  of  next  season 
were  pushing  our  stems  from  their  hold  on  the  ever- 
renewing  tree  of  Life.     I  am  getting  to  be  an  old  fel 
low,  and  my  sheaves  are  not  so  many  as  I  hoped;  but  I 
am  outwardly  more  prosperous  than  ever  before — indeed, 
than   ever  I   dreamed   of  being.     If  none  of  my  stays 
give  way,  I  shall  have  a  clear  income  of  over  four  thou 
sand  a  year,  with  a  house  over  my  head,  and  a  great 
heap  of  what  I  have  always  found  the  best  fertilizer  of 
the  mind — leisure.     I  cannot  tell  you  how  this  sense 
of  my  regained  paradise  of  Independence  enlivens  me. 
It  is  something  I  have  not  felt  for  years — hardly  since 
I  have  been  a  professor.  .  .  .  Meanwhile  I  am  getting  a 
kind  of  fame — though  I  never  valued  that,  as  you  know 
— and  what  is  better,  a  certain  respect  as  a  man  of 
some  solid  qualities,  which  I  do  value  highly.     I  have 
always  believed  that  a  man's  fate  is  born  with  him,  and 
that  he  cannot  escape  from  it  nor  greatly  modify  it — 
and  that  consequently  every  one  gets  in  the  long  run 
exactly  what  he  deserves,  neither  more  nor  less.     At 
any  rate,  this  is  a  cheerful  creed,  and  enables  one  to 
sleep  soundly  in  the  very  shadow  of  Miltiades'  trophy. 
What  I  said  long  ago  is  literally  true,  that  it  is  only 
for  the  sake  of  those  who  believed  in  us  early  that  we 
desire  the  verdict  of  the  world  in  our  favor.     It  is  the 
natural  point  of  honor  to  hold  our  endorsers  harmless. 
...  It  is  always  my  happiest  thought  that  with  all 
the   drawbacks   of   temperament   (of  which  no  one  is 
more  keenly  conscious  than  myself)  I  have  never  lost 
a  friend.     For  I  would  rather  be  loved  than  anything 


76  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1871 

e]se_  in  the  world.  I  always  thirst  after  affection,  and 
depend  more  on  the  expression  of  it  than  is  altogether 
wise.  And  yet  I  leave  the  letters  of  those  I  love  un 
answered  so  long!  It  is  because  the  habits  of  author 
ship  are  fatal  to  the  careless  unconsciousness  that  is 
the  life  of  a  letter,  and  still  more,  in  my  case,  that  I 
have  always  something  on  my  mind — an  uneasy  sense 
of  disagreeable  duties  to  come,  which  I  cannot  shake 
myself  free  from.  But  worse  than  all  is  that  lack  of 
interest  in  one's  self  that  comes  of  drudgery — for  I 
hold  that  a  letter  which  is  not  mainly  about  the  writer 
of  it  lacks  the  prime  flavor.  The  wine  must  smack  a 
little  of  the  cask.  You  will  recognize  the  taste  of 
my  old  wood  in  this !  .  .  . 


TO   E.  L.  GODKIN 

Elmwood,  Dec.  20,  1871. 

My  dear  Godkin,  —  I  haven't  looked  into  Taine's 
book  since  it  first  appeared  seven  years  ago,  and  as  I 
had  no  thought  of  reviewing  it,  I  find  that  I  did  not 
mark  it  as  I  read.  To  write  a  competent  review  I 
should  have  to  read  it  all  through  again,  for  which  I  have 
neither  the  time  nor  the  head  just  now.  I  have  just 
been  writing  about  Masson's  "  Life  of  Milton,"  for  the 
North  American,  and  the  result  has  convinced  me  that 
my  brain  is  softening.  You  are  the  only  man  I  know  who 
carries  his  head  perfectly  steady,  and  I  find  myself  so 
thoroughly  agreeing  with  the  Nation  always  that  I  am 
half  persuaded  I  edit  it  myself !  Or  rather,  you  always 
say  what  I  would  have  said — if  I  had  only  thought  of  it. 


1871]  TO   MISS   NORTON  77 

I  am  thinking  of  coming  on  to  New  York  for  a  day 
or  two  next  week,  to  see  you  and  a  few  other  friends. 
Somehow  my  youth  is  revived  in  me,  and  I  have  a 
great  longing  for  an  hour  or  two  in  Page's  studio,  to 
convince  me  that  I  am  really  only  twenty-four,  as  I 
seem  to  myself.  So  get  ready  to  be  jolly,  for  I  mean 
to  bring  a  spare  trunk  full  of  good  spirits  with  me  and 
to  forget  that  I  have  ever  been  professor  or  author  or 
any  other  kind  of  nuisance.  Just  as  I  was  in  fancy 
kicking  off  my  ball  and  chain,  a  glance  at  the  clock 
tells  me  I  must  run  down  to  College !  But  when  I 
come  to  New  York  (since  I  can't  get  rid  of  them)  I 
shall  wear  'em  as  a  breastpin.  I  have  seen  some  near 
ly  as  large.  Dickens  had  one  when  I  first  saw  him  in 
'42.  Give  my  kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Godkin. 
Always  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

Give  Schenck  another  shot.  Also  say  something  on 
the  queer  notion  of  the  Republican  party  that  they  can 
get  along  without  their  brains.  "  Time  was  that  when 
the  brains  were  out  the  man  would  die"  but  nous  avons 
change  tout  cela. 

TO   MISS  NORTON 

Elmwood,  Dec.  21,  1871. 

.  .  .  You  forget  that  I  know  Dresden  better  than  any 
other  city  except  Rome,  and  I  wish  to  know  whether 
you  are  in  the  Altstadt  or  the  Neustadt,  and  in  what 
part  of  either,  that  I  may  figure  you  to  myself  the  more 
comfortably.  Is  the  theatre  rebuilt?  Are  the  Schloss 


78  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1871 

and  the  Japanische  Palast  in  their  old  places?  Does 
the  sandstone  statue  of  the  reforming  Elector  still  keep 
watch  and  ward  at  the  corner  of  the  little  garden  on 
which  my  room  opened,  where  I  heard  the  first  Euro 
pean  thrush,  and  had  my  daily  breakfast-party  of  spar 
rows?  Is  there  still  a  Victoria  regia  in  the  little  green 
house?  Are  there  yellow-coated  chairmen  yet?  And 
do  the  linkmen  run  before  the  royal  coaches  at  night? 
And  will  the  postman  who  brings  you  this  wear  a  scarlet 
jacket  as  he  should  ?  And  is  it  dreadfully  cold,  and  do 
you  worry  yourself  every  morning  by  reducing  Reau 
mur  to  Fahrenheit  before  you  know  how  cold  you  can 
conscientiously  feel  ?  Dear  me,  how  I  should  like  to  be 
over  there  just  for  an  hour  on  Christmas  eve,  to  stroll 
about  with  you  and  see  again  the  prettiest  sight  I  ever 
saw — the  innocent  jollity  in  the  houses  of  the  poor,  and 
the  dancing  shadows  of  the  children  round  the  frugal 
Christmas-tree ! 

Here  we  are  having  winter  in  earnest.  Thermometer 
four  below  zero  this  morning,  and  the  whole  earth  shin 
ing  in  the  sun  like  the  garments  of  the  saints  at  the  Res 
urrection.  Presently  I  shall  walk  down  to  the  village  to 
post  this  and  drink  a  beaker  full  of  the  north-west — the 
true  elixir  of  good  spirits.  .  .  . 

George  Curtis  has  just  sent  in  his  report  on  the  Civil 
Service,  and  I  expect  much  good  from  it.  A  man  like 
him  who  knows  the  value  of  moderation,  and  who  can 
be  perfectly  firm  in  his  own  opinions  without  stroking 
those  of  everybody  else  against  the  fur,  was  sure  to  do 
the  right  thing.  I  am  glad  his  name  will  be  associated 
with  so  excellent  a  reform.  He  deserved  it. 


1872]  TO    MISS    NORTON    AND    F.   H.   UNDERWOOD  79 

TO   THE   SAME 

Elmwood,  Feb.  17,  1872. 

.  .  .  Everything  goes  on  here  as  usual.  Three  times 
a  week  I  have  my  classes,  one  in  Nannucci,  "  Letteratura 
del  Primo  Secolo,"  the  other  in  Bartsch, "  Chrestomathie 
de  1'Ancien  Francais."  On  Wednesdays  I  have  besides  a 
University  class,  with  whom  I  have  read  the  "  Chanson  de 
Roland,"  and  am  now  reading  the  "  Roman  de  la  Rose." 
On  my  off-days,  the  first  thing  in  the  morning  I  go  over 
my  work  for  the  next  day,  and  then  renew  my  reading 
of  Old  French.  The  only  modern  book  I  have  read  for  a 
long  while  is  Comte  Gobineau's  "  La  Philosophic  et  les 
Religions  de  1'Asie  Centrale,"  which  I  think  one  of  the 
most  interesting  works  I  ever  read.  It  tells  you  a  great 
deal  you  did  not  know,  and  in  a  very  lively  way.  If  you 
have  not  read  it  I  advise  you  to  do  so  forthwith.  .  .  . 

...  As  for  my  being  in  low  spirits,  I  haven't  been  so 
this  long  while.  I  thought  it  was  constitutional  with 
me,  but  since  I  have  had  no  pecuniary  anxieties  I  am  as 
light  as  a  bird.  No,  you  are  quite  right ;  you  wouldn't 
suspect  it  from  my  letters.  But,  my  dear  Jane,  it  takes 
a  good  while  to  slough  off  the  effect  of  seventeen  years 
of  pedagogy.  I  am  grown  learned  (after  a  fashion)  and 
dull.  The  lead  has  entered  into  my  soul.  But  I  have 
great  faith  in  putting  the  sea  between  me  and  the  stocks 
I  have  been  sitting  in  so  long.  .  .  . 

TO   F.  H.  UNDERWOOD 

Elmwood,  May  12,  1872. 
.  .  .  Don't  bother  yourself  with  any  sympathy  for  me 


00  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1872 

under  my  supposed  sufferings  from  critics.  I  don't  need 
it  in  the  least.  If  a  man  does  anything  good,  the  world 
always  finds  it  out,  sooner  or  later ;  and  if  he  doesn't, 
why,  the  world  finds  that  out  too — and  ought  to.  ... 

'Gainst  monkey's  claws  and  ass's  hoof 
My  studies  forge  me  mail  of  proof. 
I  climb  through  paths  forever  new 
To  purer  air  and  broader  view. 
What  matter  though  they  should  efface, 
So  far  below,  my  footstep's  trace  ? 


TO   MISS  NORTON 

Elmwood,  July  2,  1872. 

.  .  .  We  have  had  Commencement  week,  too,  but  I 
saw  little  of  it,  being  hard  at  work  all  the  while  upon 
an  article  about  Dante,  with  Miss  Rossetti's  book  for 
a  text.  I  have  not  made  so  much  of  it  as  I  should  if 
my  time  had  been  less  broken.  As  it  was,  I  had  to  keep 
the  press  going  from  day  to  day.  Charles  will  smile  at 
this,  remembering  his  editorial  experience  of  me.  .  .  . 

We  sail  in  a  week  from  to-day,  and  I  have  as  yet  no 
plans.  J.  H.  goes  with  us  !  Frank  Parkman  and  Henry 
Adams  are  also  fellow-passengers,  so  that  we  shall  have 
a  pleasant  ship's  company.  We  shall  contrive  to  meet 
you  somewhere,  you  may  be  sure.  Write  to  care  of 
Barings  whether  you  are  still  at  St.  Germain.  I  asso 
ciate  the  name  pleasantly  with  the  old  homonymous 
pear  which  used  to  be  in  our  garden.  .  .  . 


VII 

1872-1876 

VISIT  TO  EUROPE  :  ENGLAND,  RESIDENCE  IN  PARIS,  ITALY,  PARIS, 

ENGLAND. — HONORARY  DEGREE  FROM   OXFORD. ELEGY  ON 

AGASSIZ. RETURN  TO  ELMWOOD. RESUMPTION  OF  PROFES 
SORIAL  DUTIES. — CENTENNIAL  POEMS  AT  CONCORD  AND  CAM 
BRIDGE. "  AMONG  MY  BOOKS/'  SECOND  SERIES. — ENTRANCE 

INTO  POLITICAL  LIFE. DELEGATE  TO  THE  NATIONAL  RE 
PUBLICAN  CONVENTION. — PRESIDENTIAL  ELECTOR. 

LETTERS  TO  MISS  GRACE  NORTON,  GEORGE  PUTNAM,  MISS 
NORTON,  THOMAS  HUGHES,  C.  E.  NORTON,  LESLIE  STEPHEN, 
E.  L.  GODKIN,  T.  B.  ALDRICH,  MRS.  L.  A.  STIMSON,  W.  D. 

HOWELLS,    T.   S.   PERRY,    MRS.  ,  J.   W.    FIELD,    R.  S.   CHIL- 

TON,  R.  W.  GILDER,  JOEL  BENTON,  E.  P.  BLISS,  H.  W.  LONG 
FELLOW. 

TO    MISS   GRACE   NORTON 

ii  Down  Street,  Piccadilly,  Aug.  4,  1872. 

.  .  .  Our  voyage  was  as  smooth  as  the  style  of  the 
late  Mr.  Samuel  Rogers  of  happy  memory.  .  .  .  We 
landed  at  Queenstown  on  the  morning  of  the  eleventh 
day  out.  .  .  . 

Dublin  interested  me  much.     I  can  describe  it  in  one 

word  by  calling  it  Hogarthian.     I  walked  pretty  well 

over  it  while  there,  and  was  continually  struck  with  its 

last-century  look.     I  saw  even  a  genuine  Tom  O'Bed- 

II.— 6 


82  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1872 

lam  one  day.  Beggars  are  as  thick  as  in  Italy  and  quite 
as  pertinacious.  One  pretty  little  scene  I  shall  never 
forget.  It  was  a  drizzly  day,  and  the  sidewalks  were 
covered  with  a  slippery  black  paste.  Near  the  Tholsel 
(City  Hall)  sat  a  woman  on  some  steps  nursing  her 
baby,  and  in  front  of  her  a  ring  of  barefoot  children 
(the  oldest  not  more  than  five  years)  were  dancing 
round  a  little  tot  who  stood  bewildered  in  the  middle, 
and  singing  as  they  whirled  hand  in  hand.  They  were 
as  dirty  and  as  rosy  and  as  ragged  as  could  be,  and  as 
pretty  as  one  of  Richter's  groups.  The  ballad-singer 
with  her  baby  and  lugubrious  song  I  met  several  times. 
At  the  National  Gallery  we  saw  a  portrait  by  Moroni 
as  good  as  anything  south  of  the  Alps,  and  at  the  Na 
tional  Exhibition  lots  of  Irish  portraits  and  other  inter 
esting  things.  I  went  to  the  library  of  Trinity  College, 
where  the  librarian,  Dr.  Malet,  was  very  civil,  and  prom 
ised  to  send  some  books  to  the  good  old  Sibley.*  I  was 
interested  in  the  College  as  being  Godkin's,  whom  I  cel 
ebrated  to  Dr.  Malet,  you  may  be  sure.  From  Dublin  to 
Chester,  where  we  stayed  five  days,  and  where  Charles 
Kingsley  (who  is  a  canon  there)  was  very  kind.  We 
had  the  advantage  of  going  over  the  Cathedral  with 
him,  and  over  the  town  with  the  chief  local  antiquary. 
We  fell  quite  in  love  with  it  and  with  the  delightful 
walk  round  the  walls.  We  arrived  in  London  night 
before  last.  .  .  . 

Affectionately  yours, 

LLUMBAGO  LLOWELL. 

*  The  Librarian  of  Harvard  University. 


1872]  TO    MISS   NORTON  83 

TO    MISS   NORTON 
ii  Down  Street,  Piccadilly,  Aug.  19,  1872. 

...  I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  I  am  not  enjoying 
myself.  I  suppose  I  am,  in  an  indolent  kind  of  fashion, 
but  I  caught  myself  being  homesick  before  I  had  been 
a  week  in  England.  Some  little  solace  I  got  out  of  an 
Anglo-Norman  poem  which  I  picked  up  here,  and  I 
can't  help  laughing  when  I  think  of  it.  So,  then,  my 
nature,  like  a  dyer's  hand,  has  been  subdued  to  what  it 
has  been  working  in,  and  the  curious  dulness  I  am  sen 
sible  of  in  myself  is  a  fair  standard  of  how  much  there 
must  be  in  the  literature  whence  I  drew  it.  It  worries 
me,  though,  this  slowness.  You  have  always  laughed 
at  me  when  I  talked  about  it,  but  what  I  said  of  myself 
years  ago  (I  could  not  say  anything  so  smart  now) — 
that  I  had  been  altered  from  percussion  to  flint — is  per 
fectly  true. 

Something  you  say  in  your  letter  puts  me  in  mind 
of  what  I  always  thought  one  of  the  most  truly  pa 
thetic  passages  in  all  literature.  I  mean  that  in  which 
Froissart,  after  devoting  a  chapter  to  the  praises  of  the 
Queen  (I  forget  her  name)  who  had  been  his  patroness, 
seems  to  bethink  himself,  and  rousing  from  his  reverie 
with  a  sigh,  begins  his  next  chapter  by  saying,  "  There 
is  no  death  which  we  must  not  get  over,"  or  something 
to  that  effect.  Whether  he  meant  just  that  or  not, 
there  is  nothing  sadder,  nothing  we  resent  so  much,  as 
the  necessity  of  being  distracted  and  consoled.  I  fear  I 
have  quoted  this  to  you  before,  it  comes  up  to  my  mind 
so  often.  I  wish  I  could  recollect  the  Queen's  name. 


84  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1872 

But  I  never  can.  And  this  the  more  persuades  me  of 
my  unfitness  to  be  a  professor,  whose  main  business  it 
is  to  remember  names  and  to  be  cocksure  of  dates.  I 
can't  for  my  life  tell  you  (without  going  to  my  books) 
who  jt  was  that  first  alternated  male  and  female  rhymes 
in  French  alexandrine  verse,  nor  whether  he  hit  upon 
this  clever  scheme  for  setting  the  French  Muse  in  the 
stocks  towards  the  close  of  the  twelfth  or  beginning 
of  the  thirteenth  century,  Isn't  there  a  pretty  pro 
fessor!  Anyhow,  the  said  Muse  has  sat  there  ever 
since !  Beranger  cheered  her  up  with  a  bottle  of 
claret,  and  de  Musset  gave  her  a  kind  of  wicked  in 
spiration  with  absinthe ;  but  there  she  sits,  and  all 
owing  to  this  wretch  whose  name  I  can't  recall.  Am 
I  the  right  sort  of  man  to  guide  ingenuous  youth? 
Not  a  bit  of  it !  .  .  . 

Tell  Charles  the  article  on  Dante  was  written  in  all 
the  distraction  of  getting  away,  with  the  thermometer 
at  95°,  and  keeping  abreast  of  the  printers,  so  that  I 
could  not  arrange  and  revise  properly.  I  am  glad  he 
found  anything  in  it.  ... 

Good-by,  my  dear  woman,  for  a  few  days.  By  Jove, 
isn't  it  pleasant  to  be  able  to  say  that  ?  For  a  few  days, 
mind  you.  It  was  years,  a  month  ago.  .  .  . 

Yours  most  everything  always, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO    C.  E.  NORTON 

Hotel  de  Lorraine,  No.  7  Rue  de  Beaune 
Paris,  Dec.  4,  1872. 

..   .       Oddly  enough   when   I  got   your  letter  about 


1872]  TO    C.  E.  NORTON  85 

Tennyson's  poem  I  had  just  finished  reading  a  real 
Arthurian  romance — "Fergus" — not  one  of  the  best, 
certainly,  but  having  that  merit  of  being  a  genuine 
blossom  for  which  no  triumph  of  artifice  can  compen 
sate  ;  having,  in  short,  that  woodsy  hint  and  tantaliza- 
tion  of  perfume  which  is  so  infinitely  better  than  any 
thing  more  defined.  Emerson  had  left  me  Tennyson's 
book;  so  last  night  I  took  it  to  bed  with  me  and  fin 
ished  it  at  a  gulp — reading  like  a  naughty  boy  till  half- 
past  one.  The  contrast  between  his  pomp  and  my  old 
rhymer's  simpleness  was  very  curious  and  even  instruc 
tive.  One  bit  of  the  latter  (which  I  cannot  recollect 
elsewhere)  amused  me  a  good  deal  as  a  Yankee.  When 
Fergus  comes  to  Arthur's  court  and  Sir  Kay  "  sarses  " 
him  (which,  you  know,  is  de  rigeur  in  the  old  poems), 
Sir  Gawain  saunters  up  whittling  a  stick  as  a  medicine 
against  ennui.  So  afterwards,  when  Arthur  is  dread 
fully  bored  by  hearing  no  news  of  Fergus,  he  reclines  at 
table  without  any  taste  for  his  dinner,  and  whittles  to 
purge  his  heart  of  melancholy.  I  suppose  a  modern  poet 
would  not  dare  to  come  so  near  Nature  as  this  lest  she 
should  fling  up  her  heels.  But  I  am  not  yet  "  aff  wi'  the 
auld  love,"  nor  quite  "  on  with  the  new."  There  are  very 
fine  childish  things  in  Tennyson's  poem  and  fine  manly 
things,  too,  as  it  seems  to  me,  but  I  conceive  the  theory 
to  be  wrong.  I  have  the  same  feeling  (I  am  not  wholly 
sure  of  its  justice)  that  I  have  when  I  see  these  modern- 
mediaeval  pictures.  I  am  defrauded  ;  I  do  not  see  reality, 
but  a  masquerade.  The  costumes  are  all  that  is  genu 
ine,  and  the  people  inside  them  are  shams — which,  I  take 
it,  is  just  the  reverse  of  what  ought  to  be.  One  special 


86  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1872 

criticism  I  should  make  on  Tennyson's  new  Idyls,  and 
that  is  that  the  similes  are  so  often  dragged  in  by  the 
hair.  They  seem  to  be  taken  (a  la  Tom  Moore)  from 
note-books,  and  not  suggested  by  the  quickened  sense  of 
association  in  the  glow  of  composition.  Sometimes  it 
almost  seems  as  if  the  verses  were  made  for  the  similes, 
instead  of  being  the  cresting  of  a  wave  that  heightens  as 
it  rolls.  This  is  analogous  to  the  costume  objection  and 
springs  perhaps  from  the  same  cause  —  the  making  of 
poetry  with  malice  prepense.  However,  I  am  not  going 
to  forget  the  lovely  things  that  Tennyson  has  written, 
and  I  think  they  give  him  rather  hard  measure  now. 
However,  it  is  the  natural  recoil  of  a  too  rapid  fame. 
Wordsworth  had  the  true  kind  —  an  unpopularity  that 
roused  and  stimulated  while  he  was  strong  enough  to  de 
spise  it,  and  honor,  obedience,  troops  of  friends,  when  the 
grasshopper  would  have  been  a  burthen  to  the  drooping 
shoulders.  Tennyson,  to  be  sure,  has  been  childishly 
petulant ;  but  what  have  these  whipper-snappers,  who 
cry  "  Go  up,  baldhead,"  done  that  can  be  named  with 
some  things  of  his?  He  has  been  the  greatest  artist  in 
words  we  have  had  since  Gray  —  and  remember  how 
Gray  holds  his  own  with  little  fuel,  but  real  fire.  He 
had  the  secret  of  the  inconsumable  oil,  and  so,  I  fancy, 
has  Tennyson. 

I  keep  on  picking  up  books  here  and  there,  but  I 
shall  be  forced  to  stop,  for  I  find  I  have  got  beyond 
my  income.  Still,  I  shall  try  gradually  to  make  my 
Old  French  and  Provengal  collection  tolerably  complete, 
for  the  temptation  is  great  where  the  field  is  definitely 
bounded.  , 


1873]  TO   GEORGE   PUTNAM    AND   C.  E.  NORTON  87 

TO    GEORGE   PUTNAM 

Hotel  de  Lorraine,  No.  7  Rue  de  Beaune, 
Paris,  Dec.  12,  1872. 

My  dear  Putnam, —  .  .  .  We  are  still  at  the  same  little 
hotel,  and  like  it  better  and  better.  It  is  really  being 
in  foreign  parts,  for  everybody  is  French  but  ourselves, 
and  we  are  become  a  part  of  the  household,  so  that 
night  before  last  in  the  gale  it  was  our  haut  de  cheminee 
that  came  rattling  down. 

We  like  the  people  very  much.  They  are  kindly  and 
honest,  and  we  think  we  shall  stay  a  month  or  two 
longer.  It  will  be  wise,  for  if  I  stay  so  long  my  in 
come  will  overtake  me.  It  is  a  little  out  of  breath  just 
now — but  then  I  have  got  some  books  (all  in  Old  French 
and  Provencal)  which  will  be  a  revenue  to  me  so  long 
as  I  live.  We  are  too  near  the  quais,  where  all  the 
bouquinistes  spin  their  webs.  We  are  threatened  with 
a  kind  of  mild  revolution  (an  inoculated  one),  but  I 
doubt.  I  think  the  Right  must  keep  on  with  Thiers, 
and  that  even  had  they  the  courage  for  a  coup-d'ttat, 
he  would  outgeneral  them.  But,  after  all,  en  France 
tout  arrive,  and  the  French  are  the  most  wonderful 
creatures  for  talking  wisely  and  acting  foolishly  I  ever 
saw.  However,  I  like  Paris,  and  am  beginning  to  be 
glad  I  came  abroad.  .  .  . 

TO   C.    E.   NORTON 

Paris,  Jan.  n,  1873. 

My  dear  Charles, —  ...  I  begin  to  foresee  that  I  shall 
not  stay  abroad  so  long  as  I  expected.     I  thought  I  was 


88  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1873 

all  right  now,  but  as  usual  my  income  is  never  so  large 
as  my  auguries.  Fortunately,  I  like  Cambridge  better 
than  any  other  spot  of  the  earth's  surface,  and  if  I  can 
only  manage  to  live  there,  shall  be  at  ease  yet.  Inveni 
portum,  spes  et  fortuna,  valete  ;  sat  me  lusistis,  ludite  jam 
alias  !  That's  what  I  shall  say — at  least  I  hope  so.  ... 

Paris,  old  Mr.  Sales  said,  was  not  exactly  the  place 
for  deacons.  Nor  is  it  for  poets.  However,  no  place 
is  where  one  only  perches.  I  cannot  contrive  the  right 
kind  of  solitude,  and  if  I  compose  as  I  walk  about  I 
shall  be  run  over.  I  made  out  a  sonnet  day  before  yes 
terday,  which,  as  I  composed  it  expressly  for  you,  I 
shall  send  to  its  address — though  its  merit  lies  mainly 
in  the  sentiment  and  not  (as  it  should  be  with  a  sonnet) 
in  the  execution.  But  I  am  getting  as  bad  with  my 
prelude  as  the  band  in  a  penny  show,  and  you  will 
begin  to  expect  something  wonderful  if  I  don't  give 
you  the  thing  at  once. 

P.  S.  I  conceived  it  in  Cumberland. 

As  sinks  the  sun  behind  yon  alien  hills, 
Whose  heather-purpled  slopes  in  glory  rolled 
Flush  all  my  thought  with  momentary  gold, 
What  pang  of  vague  regret  my  fancy  thrills  ? 
Here  'tis  enchanted  ground  the  peasant  tills, 
Where  the  shy  ballad  could  its  leaves  unfold, 
And  Memory's  glamour  makes  new  sights  seem  old, 
As  when  our  life  some  vanished  dream  fulfils. 
Yet  not  to  you  belong  these  painless  tears, 
Land  loved  ere  seen ;  before  my  darkened  eyes, 
From  far  beyond  the  waters  and  the  years, 
Horizons  mute  that  wait  their  poet  rise  ; 
The  stream  before  me  fades  and  disappears, 
And  in  the  Charles  the  western  splendor  dies. 


1873]  TO   C.   E.  NORTON  89 

I  have  hardly  expressed  the  strange  feeling  of  ideal 
familiarity  vexed  with  a  longing  for  something  visibly 
intimate.  But  I  miss  my  old  Solitude,  and  if  Memory 
be  the  mother  of  the  Muses,  this  lonely  lady  is  their 
maiden  aunt  who  always  has  gifts  for  them  in  her  cup 
board  when  they  visit  her.  However,  I  have  a  poem  or 
two  in  my  head  which  I  hope  will  come  to  something 
one  of  these  days.  The  theme  of  one  of  them  is  pretty 
enough.  To  the  cradle  of  Garin  come  the  three  fairies. 
One  gives  him  beauty — one  power — and  the  third  mis 
fortune.  Grown  an  old,  old  man,  he  sits  in  the  court 
yard  of  the  palace  he  has  conquered  from  the  Sara 
cens,  and  muses  over  his  past  life  to  the  murmur  of  the 
fountain,  which  sings  to  him  as  it  did  to  its  old  lords, 
and  as  it  will  to  the  new  after  he  is  gone.  As  he  reck 
ons  up  what  is  left  him  as  the  result  of  the  three  gifts, 
what  is  really  a  possession  of  the  soul,  what  has  turned 
the  soft  fibre  of  gifts  to  the  hard  muscle  of  character, 
he  comes  to  the  conclusion  that  the  third  fairy,  whom 
his  parents  would  fain  have  kept  away  or  propitiated, 
was  the  beneficent  one. 

I  have  seen  nothing  new  except  the  Due  d'Aumale, 
whom  I  met  the  other  night  at  the  Laugels'.  I  had,  of 
course,  only  a  few  moments'  commonplace  talk  with 
him.  As  a  general  thing,  I  like  men  vastly  better  than 
dukes,  though  where  the  two  qualities  are  united,  as  in 
him,  I  am  willing  to  encounter  the  product.  He  is  a 
distingue  person  in  a  high  sense,  with  a  real  genius  for 
looking  like  a  gentleman.  I  was  pleased  to  see  how 
much  might  be  done  by  breeding,  and  how  effective  the 
result  is — greater  in  some  respects  than  that  of  great 


90  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1873 

natural  parts.  It  was  good  to  see  so  pure  a  face  in  the 
grandson  of  Egalite"  and  great-grandson  of  the  Regent. 
There  is  hope,  then,  for  the  most  degraded  races,  and 
Whitefriars  may  contain  the  ancestors  of  saints  and 
heroes.  One  thing  struck  me  particularly,  and  made 
our  Americanism  (which  weighs  a  man  honestly,  with 
out  throwing  in  the  bones  of  his  ancestors)  dearer  to 
me.  Nobody,  I  could  see,  was  quite  at  ease  with  the 
duke,  nor  he  with  anybody.  There  was  something 
unnatural  in  the  relation,  a  dimly  defined  sense  of  an 
achronism,  something  of  what  a  dog  might  feel  in  the 
company  of  a  tame  wolf.  The  more  I  see  of  the  old 
world,  the  better  I  like  the  new.  I  am  disgusted  to 
see  how  the  papers  are  willing  to  overlook  the  crimes 
and  the  essential  littleness  of  Napoleon  III.,  simply  be 
cause  he  has  had  the  wit  to  die,  a  stroke  of  genius 
within  reach  of  us  all.  However,  I  was  long  ago  con 
vinced  that  one  of  the  rarest  things  in  the  world  was 
a  real  opinion  based  on  judgment  and  unshakable  by 
events.  The  clamor  civiuin  prava  laudantium  is  as  bad 
as  that  of  the  jubentium.  .  .  . 

Always  most  lovingly  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO   MISS   NORTON 

Hotel  de  Lorraine,  7  Rue  de  Beaune, 
Paris,  March  4,  1873. 

.  .  .  We  have  enjoyed  our  winter  here  on  the  whole 
very  much,  and  have  really  learned  something  of  the 
French  and  their  ways — more  than  ten  years  on  the 
other  side  of  the  river  would  have  done  for  us.  The 


1873]  TO   C.  E.  NORTON  91 

French  are  fearfully  and  wonderfully  made  in  some  re 
spects,  but  I  like  them  and  their  pretty  ways.  It  is  a 
positive  pleasure  (after  home  experiences,  where  one 
has  to  pad  himself  all  over  against  the  rude  elbowing 
of  life)  to  go  and  buy  a  cigar.  It  is  an  affair  of  the 
highest  and  most  gracious  diplomacy,  and  we  spend 
more  monsieurs  and  madames  upon  it  than  would  sup 
ply  all  the  traffic  of  Cambridge  for  a  half-century.  It 
is  a  good  drill,  for  I  have  always  been  of  the  mind  that 
in  a  democracy  manners  are  the  only  effective  weapons 
against  the  bowie-knife,  the  only  thing  that  will  save  us 
from  barbarism.  Our  little  hotel  is  very  pleasant  in  its 
way,  and  its  clientele  is  of  the  most  respectable.  .  .  . 
I  can't  remember  whether  I  told  Charles  that  one  of 
our  convives  turned  out  to  be  a  gentleman  who  had 
lived  many  years  in  Finland,  and  had  translated  into 
French  my  favorite  "  Kalewala."  He  tells  me  that 
the  Finns  recite  their  poems  six  or  seven  hours  on  the 
stretch,  spelling  one  another,  as  we  say  in  New  Eng 
land.  This  would  make  easily  possible  the  recitation 
of  a  poem  like  the  "  Roland,"  for  example,  or  of  one 
even  much  longer.  .  .  . 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

H6tel  de  Lorraine,  7  Rue  de  Beaune, 
Paris,  March  18,  1873. 

.  .  .  The  Emersons  are  back  with  us,  to  our  great 
satisfaction,  and  yesterday  I  took  him  to  the  top  of 
the  tower  of  Notre  Dame,  and  played  the  part  of  Satan 
very  well,  I  hope,  showing  him  all  the  kingdoms  of  this 
world.  A  very  pleasant  walk  we  had  of  it.  He  grows 


92  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1873 

sweeter  if  possible  as  he  grows  older.  He  had  a  pros 
perous  Egyptian  journey.  .  .  .  He  told  us  a  droll  story 
of  Alcott  last  night.  He  asked  the  Brahmin  what  he 
had  to  show  for  himself,  what  he  had  done,  in  short,  to 
justify  his  having  been  on  the  earth.  "  If  Pythagoras 
came  to  Concord  whom  would  he  ask  to  see?"  de 
manded  the  accused  triumphantly.  .  .  . 

TO   THOMAS   HUGHES 

Hotel  de  Lorraine,  7  Rue  de  Beaune, 
Paris,  March  19,  1873. 

My  dear  Friend, — First,  of  what  interests  me  most. 
The  day  I  got  your  book*  the  Emersons  came  back 
from  the  crocodiles  and  pyramids  and  fleas.  So  I  could 
not  get  at  it  so  soon  as  I  would.  But  I  began  it  in  the 
hour  before  dinner,  and  at  last,  when  everybody  had 
gone  to  bed,  I  sat  up  (like  a  naughty  boy)  till  half- 
past  one  and  read  every  word  of  it,  even  including  my 
own  verses,  which  had  a  kind  of  sweetness  for  me  be 
cause  you  liked  them.  It  interested  me  very  much,  and 
I  quite  fell  in  love  with  your  father,  who  seems  to  me 
to  have  been  a  model  of  good  sense  and  that  manliness 
which  it  is  perhaps  our  weakness  to  limit  by  calling  it 
gentle-manliness.  I  see  where  you  got  a  great  deal  of 
what  I  love  in  you.  I  wish  your  brother  had  done  more, 
and  I  confess  (though  it  is  awkward)  that  I  would  rather 
have  had  your  life  (but  for  a  single  tragic  contingency) 
than  his.  I  did,  to  be  sure,  get  a  part  of  it.  But  I  was 
touched  especially  and  inspired  with  the  glimpse  I  got 

*  The  book  was  "  Memoir  of  a  Brother." 


1873]  TO   THOMAS    HUGHES  93 

of  the  affection  and  unity  of  your  household.     Your 
preface  came  to  me  just  at  the  right  moment,  when  I 
was  saddened  by  the  news  from  home,  above  all,  with 
the  fact  that  the  average  public  opinion  of  the  country 
did  not  seem  to  be  higher  than  the  personal  sense  of 
duty  of  its  representatives.     What  you  say  of  the  quiet 
lives  that  would  come  to  the  front  in  England  in  a  time 
of  stress  I  believe  to  be  true  of  us  also.     I  cannot  think 
such  a  character  as  Emerson's — one  of  the  simplest  and 
noblest  I  have  ever  known — a  freak  of  chance,  and  I 
hope  that  my  feeling  that  the  country  is  growing  worse 
is  nothing  more  than  men  of  my  age  have  always  felt 
when  they  looked  back  to  the  ternpus  actum.     I  think 
that  this  book  of  yours  also,  like  all  your  others,  will  do 
a  great  deal  of  good  and  add  to  the  number  of  honest 
men  in  the  world.     The  longer  I  live  (you  will  see  or 
divine  the  subtle  thread  of  association)  the  less  I  wonder 
that  men  make  much  of  soldiers.     The  Romans  were 
right  when  they  lumped   together  manhood,  courage, 
and  virtue  in  the  single  word  virtus.     What  profounder 
moral  than  that  their  descendants  should  express  by 
the  word  virtu  the  contents  of  a  shop  where  second 
hand  shreds  and  fragments  of  old  housekeeping  fash 
ions  are  sold  ? 

As  for  the  degree,  read  Charles  Lamb's  sonnet  on  vis 
iting  Oxford  and  you  will  see  how  I  feel.  I  would  take 
a  much  longer  journey  for  the  sake  of  feeling  even  a  son- 
in-law's  right  in  that  ancient  household  of  scholarship 
and  pluck.  I  believe  I  care  very  little  for  decorations, 
but  I  should  prize  this  not  only  abstractedly,  but  because 
it  would  give  more  "  power  to  my  elbow,"  as  Paddy 


94  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1873 

says,  at  home.  How  it  would  have  pleased  my  father ! 
But  I  shall  not  be  a  bit  disappointed  if  I  do  not  get  it, 
and  shall  always  count  myself  a  D.C.L.  so  far  as  you 
are  concerned. 

We  had  a  good  laugh  over  the  woodcut  on  the  cover 
of  my  book.  The  one  inside  is  a  very  good  copy  of 
the  photograph,  though  it  does  not,  I  fancy,  look  much 
like  me.  Madame  pronounces  it  dreadful.  Luckily,  I 
have  the  skin  of  a  rhinoceros  in  this  regard,  and  have 
never  sloughed  off  the  wholesome  effect  of  having  been 
brought  up  to  consider  myself  visible  to  the  naked  eye, 
in  other  words  plain.  What  a  frank  creature  the  sun  is, 
to  be  sure,  as  an  artist !  He  would  almost  take  the 
nonsense  out  of  a  Frenchman. 

If  I  had  dreamed  you  would  have  run  over  to  Paris, 
wouldn't  I  have  told  you  where  I  was !  But,  in  fact,  I 
have  lingered  on  here  from  week  to  week  aimlessly, 
having  come  abroad  to  do  nothing,  and  having  thus  far 
succeeded  admirably. 

So  far  as  I  understood  your  "differ"*  with  your 
electors  I  thought  you  were  right.  I  doubt  if  it  be  time 
yet  to  give  up  the  Church  of  England  or  indeed  to  cut 
rashly  any  cable  that  anchors  you  to  your  historical 
past.  If  I  am  wanted  in  England  I  will  be  with  you  at 

Easter. 

Always  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

*  My  supporters  at  Frome,  which  borough  I  then  represented, 
had  passed  resolutions  in  favor  of  disestablishing  the  Church  and 
against  co-operation,  having  been  visited  by  the  agents  of  the 
Liberation  Society  and  the  Trades'  Protection  Society,  and  I  had 
refused  to  vote  for  disestablishment  or  for  any  measure  limiting 
the  right  to  associate  for  any  lawful  purpose. — T.  H. 


1873]  TO    LESLIE   STEPHEN  95 

TO    LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Paris,  April  29,  1873. 

My  dear  Stephen, — Behold  me  now  these  six  months, 
like  Napoleon  the  First,  buried  here  on  the  banks  of 
the  Seine,  in  the  midst  of  that  French  people  whom  I 
love  so  well.  I  ought  to  have  answered  your  kind  let 
ter  long  ago,  but  I  have  delayed  from  day  to  day  till  I 
could  tell  you  something  definite  about  my  plans.  But 
somehow  or  other  I  find  it  harder  and  harder  to  have 
any  plans.  Mine  host  has  mixed  nepenthe  with  his 
wine,  or  mandragora,  that  takes  the  reason  prisoner. 
But  I  think  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  run  over  to 
London  for  a  day  or  two  to  bid  the  Nortons  good-by, 
for  I  cannot  bear  to  have  the  sea  between  us  before  I 
see  them  again.  If  I  do,  I  shall  arrive  about  the  /th 
of  May,  and  I  shall  count  on  seeing  you  as  much  as 
possible.  It  will  depend  very  much  on  whether  I  can 
find  a  good  perch  for  Mrs.  Lowell  when  I  am  gone,  for 
she  is  not  in  condition  just  now  for  so  long  a  journey, 
though  not  in  any  sense  ill.  As  for  me,  I  am  grown 
more  fat  than  bard  beseems,  but  have  had  a  contin 
ual  bother  with  my  eyes — now  better,  now  worse, 
but  on  the  whole  staying  worse.  Three  days  ago  I 
thought  I  was  all  right,  and  this  morning  my  left 
eye  is  as  bad  as  ever.  A  good  reason  this  for  going 
over  to  England,  for  you  will  always  be  to  me  as  good 
a  sight  for  sair  een  as  anything  I  can  think  of.  I  have 
an  eyeglass  swinging  at  my  neck  like  the  albatross  (in 
deed  I  am  getting  to  be  a  tolerably  ancient  mariner  by 
this  time),  but  it  is  only  a  bother  to  me.  So  I  have 


96  LETTERS   OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1873 

to  give  up  the  old-age  theory  and  drift  in  the  ocean  of 
conjecture. 

However,  with  all  drawbacks  I  have  had  a  pleasant 
winter,  and  have  at  least  pretty  well  shaken  myself 
clear  of  one  of  my  pet  antipathies.  I  have  even  learnt 
to  like  the  French  after  a  fashion,  but  it  is  curious  to 
me  that  I  like  and  dislike  them  with  nothing  of  the 
intensity  which  I  feel  towards  Americans  and  English. 
I  feel,  always  unconsciously,  that  they  are  a  different 
breed,  for  whom  I  am  in  no  way  responsible.  In  the 
other  case,  a  sense  of  common  blood  and  partner 
ship  makes  attraction  easier  and  repulsion  more  in 
stinctive.  I  watch  these  people  as  Mr.  Darwin  might 
his  distant  relations  in  a  menagerie.  Their  tricks 
amuse  me,  and  I  am  not  altogether  surprised  when 
they  remind  me  of  "  folks/'  as  we  say  in  New  Eng 
land.  I  don't  believe  they  will  make  their  Rtpub- 
lique  (a  very  different  thing  from  a  republic,  by  the  way) 
march,  for  every  one  of  them  wants  to  squat  on  the 
upper  bar  and  to  snatch  the  nuts  from  his  fellows. 
Esprit  is  their  ruin,  and  an  epigram  has  with  them 
twice  the  force  of  an  argument.  However,  I  have 
learned  to  like  them,  which  is  a  great  comfort,  and  to 
see  that  they  have  some  qualities  we  might  borrow  to 
advantage. 

I  have  read  your  "  Are  We  Christians?"  and  liked  it, 
of  course,  because  I  found  you  in  it,  and  that  is  some 
thing  that  will  be  dear  to  me  so  long  as  I  keep  my  wits. 
I  think  I  should  say  that  you  lump  shams  and  conven 
tions  too  solidly  together  in  a  common  condemnation. 
All  conventions  are  not  shams  by  a  good  deal,  and  we 


1873]  TO   C.  E.  NORTON  97 

should  soon  be  Papuans  without  them.  But  I  dare  say 
I  have  misunderstood  you.  I  am  curious  to  see  your 
brother's  book,  which,  from  some  extracts  I  have  read, 
I  think  will  suit  me  very  well.  What  I  saw  was  good 
old-fashioned  sense,  and  would  have  tickled  Dr.  John 
son.  I  should  find  it  hard  to  say  why  I  dislike  John 
Stuart  Mill,  but  I  have  an  instinct  that  he  has  done  lots 
of  harm. 

I  hope  you  have  seen  something  of  Emerson,  who  is 
as  sweet  and  wholesome  as  an  Indian-summer  after 
noon.  We  had  nearly  three  weeks  of  him  here,  to 
my  great  satisfaction.  .  .  . 

I  remain  as  always 

Most  heartily  and  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO  C.  E.  NORTON 

Paris,  May  I,  1873. 

...  I  think  I  shall  get  some  good  out  of  it  (my  lazi 
ness)  one  of  these  days,  for  I  am  pleased  to  find  that 
my  dreams  have  recovered  their  tone  and  are  getting 
as  fanciful  as  they  used  to  be  before  I  was  twenty-five. 
So  I  don't  mind  the  circumference  of  my  waist.  The 
other  night  I  heard  a  peasant  girl  in  the  ruins  of  a  castle 
sing  an  old  French  ballad  that  would  have  been  worth 
a  thousand  pound  if  I  could  have  pieced  it  together 
again  when  I  awoke.  What  bit  I  could  recall  satisfied 
me  that  it  was  not  one  of  those  tricks  that  sleep  puts  on 
us  sometimes.  I  have  seen  the  Delectable  Mountains, 
too,  several  times  to  my  great  comfort,  for  I  began  to 
believe  myself  fairly  stalled  in  the  slough  of  middle  age. 
IL— 7 


98  LETTERS   OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1873 

Montaigne  called  himself  an  old  man  at  forty-seven,  and 
I  am  fifty-four ! 

Our  last  expedition  was  down  the  Seine  in  the  steam 
boat  to  Suresnes,  which  despite  a  leaden  day  was  de 
lightful,  Spring  is  a  never-failing  medicine  with  me. 
Something  or  other  within  us  pushes  and  revives  with 
the  season,  and  the  first  song  of  a  bird  sums  up  all  the 
past  happiness  of  life,  all  its  past  sorrow  too,  with  a  pas 
sion  of  regret  that  is  sweeter  than  any  happiness.  The 
spring  here  is  very  lovely.  The  tender  and  translucent 
green  of  the  leaves,  their  dream  of  summer,  as  it  were, 
lasts  longer  than  with  us,  where  they  become  mere 
business  arrangements  for  getting  grub  out  of  the  blue 
air  before  they  are  out  of  their  teens. 

I  look  forward  to  having  two  or  three  real  days  with 
you.  I  haven't  got  the  groove  of  the  collar  out  of  my 
neck  yet,  but  I  am  a  little  freer  in  mind  than  when  you 
were  here.  However,  we  shall  see.  I  think  I  am  not 
so  dull  as  then. 

J.  H.  came  back  to  us  day  before  yesterday,  after  a 
month  in  Italy,  where  he  did  not  much  enjoy  himself. 
He  says  that  he  has  become  a  thorough  misoscopist,  or 
hater  of  sights.  He  goes  home  in  June,  and  I  shall  miss 
him  more  than  I  like  to  think. 


TO   T.  B.  ALDRICH 

Paris,  May  28,  1873. 

My  dear  Aldrich,— I  have  been  so  busy  lately  with 
doing  nothing  (which  on  the  whole  demands  more  time, 
patience,  and  attention  than  any  other  business)  that  I 


1873]  TO    T.  B.  ALDRICH  99 

have  failed   to   answer  your  very  pleasant   letter  of  I 
don't  know  how  long  ago. 

What  you  say  about  William  amused  me  much.* 
You  know  there  is  a  proverb  that  "  service  is  no  inheri 
tance,"  but  it  was  invented  by  the  radical  opposition— 
by  some  servant,  that  is,  who  was  asking  for  higher 
wages.  My  relation  with  William  realized  the  saying 
in  an  inverse  sense,  for  I  received  him  from  my  father, 
already  partly  formed  by  an  easy  master,  and  have,  I 
think,  pretty  well  finished  his  education.  I  believe  I 
fled  to  Europe  partly  to  escape  his  tyranny,  and  I  am 
sure  he  is  awaiting  the  return  of  his  vassal  to  re-enter 
on  all  the  feudal  privileges  which  belong  of  right  to  his 
class  in  a  country  so  admirably  free  as  ours.  He  had 
all  the  more  purchase  upon  me  that  his  wife  had  been 
in  our  service  before  he  was,  so  that  he  knew  all  my 
weak  points  beforehand.  Nevertheless,  he  has  been  an 
excellent  servant,  diligent,  sober,  and  systematic,  and  I 
have  no  doubt  I  shall  end  my  days  as  his  milch  cow  if 
the  udders  of  my  purse  continue  to  have  a  drop  in 
them.  You  would  see  his  worst  side.  He  has  eyes 
all  round  his  head  for  the  main  chance ;  but  anybody 
would  take  advantage  of  me,  and  I  prefer  the  shearer  to 
whom  I  am  wonted,  who  clips  close,  to  be  sure,  but  has 
skill  enough  to  spare  the  skin.  He  saves  me  trouble, 
and  that  is  a  saving  I  would  rather  buy  dear  than  any 
other.  Beyond  meat  and  drink,  it  is  the  only  use  I 
have  ever  discovered  for  money — unless  you  give  it 
away,  which  is  apt  to  breed  enemies.  You  will  for- 

*  Mr.  Aldrich  was  occupying  Elmwood  during  Lowell's  absence. 
"  William  "  was  the  old  factotum  of  the  place. 


100  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1873 

give  my  saying  that  I  feel  a  certain  grain  of  pleasure 
(with  the  safe  moat  of  ocean  between)  in  thinking 
of  you  in  your  unequal  struggle  with  Wilhelmus  Con- 
questor. 

It  gives  me  a  very  odd  feeling  to  receive  a  letter 
dated  at  Elmwood  from  anybody  whose  name  isn't 
Lowell.  I  used  to  have  a  strange  fancy  when  I  came 
home  late  at  night  that  I  might  find  my  double  seated 
in  my  chair,  and  how  should  I  prove  my  identity? 
Your  letter  revived  it.  I  can  see  my  study  so  plainly 
as  I  sit  here — but  I  find  it  hard  to  fill  my  chair  with 
anybody  but  myself.  By  the  way,  the  study  table  was 
made  of  some  old  mahogany  ones  that  came  from 
Portsmouth — only  I  gave  it  to  be  done  by  a  man  in 
want  of  work,  and  of  course  the  cheap-looking  affair 
which  affronts  your  eyes.  'Twas  too  bad,  for  the  wood 
was  priceless.  You  may  have  dined  at  it  in  some  for 
mer  generation.  It  is  a  pleasant  old  house,  isn't  it? 
Doesn't  elbow  one,  as  it  were.  It  will  make  a  fright 
ful  conservative  of  you  before  you  know  it.  It  was 
born  a  Tory  and  will  die  so.  Don't  get  too  used  to  it. 
I  often  wish  I  had  not  grown  into  it  so.  I  am  not 
happy  anywhere  else. 

I  am  glad  to  hear  you  are  writing  a  novel.  Get  it 
all  done  before  you  begin  to  print.  Serials  have  been 
the  bane  of  literature.  There  is  no  more  good  ship 
building.  But  I  draw  a  good  augury  from  your  letter. 
You  had  the  strength  of  mind  to  leave  off  at  the  end 
of  your  third  .page — though  I  would  readily  have  for 
given  you  the  fourth.  This  is  a  rare  virtue,  and  if  you 
will  but  write  your  book  on  the  same  principle  of  leav- 


1873]  TO   T.  B.  ALDRICH  IOI 

ing  off  when  you  have  done,  I  am  sure  I  shall  be  glad 
to  read  it. 

I  shall  stay  out  my  two  years,  though  personally  I 
would  rather  be  at  home.  In  certain  ways  this  side  is 
more  agreeable  to  my  tastes  than  the  other — but  even 
the  buttercups  stare  at  me  as  a  stranger  and  the  birds 
have  a  foreign  accent.  I'll  be  hanged  but  the  very 
clouds  put  on  strange  looks  to  thwart  me,  and  turn 
the  cold  shoulder  on  me.  However,  I  have  learned  to 
know  and  like  the  French  during  my  nine  months'  stay 
among  them. 

I  am  sorry  to  hear  they  stole  your  fruit.  It  gave  me 
a  sensible  pang,  for  the  trees  I  have  planted  are  part  of 
myself,  and  I  feel  the  furtive  evulsion  of  every  pear  even 
at  this  distance.  Get  a  dog.  He  will  eat  up  all  your 
chickens,  keep  you  awake  all  moonlight  nights,  and  root 
up  all  your  flowers,  but  he  will  make  you  feel  safe  about 
your  pears  till  they  have  been  made  booty  of.  Study 
the  book  of  Job.  It  supplies  one  with  admirable  for 
mulas  of  impatience,  and  in  that  way  serves  to  recon 
cile  one  to  his  lot.  To  learn  patience  read  the  works 
of  A.  H.  K.  B. 

Give  my  love  to  Howells  when  you  see  him,  and  tell 
him  that  as  he  is  pretty  busy  he  will  easily  find  time  to 
write  to  me.  I  suppose  he  is  in  his  new  house  by  this 
time.  And  Bartlett's  house?  I  sha'n't  know  my  Cam 
bridge  when  I  come  back  to  it.  Are  you  annexed  yet  ? 
Before  this  reaches  you  I  shall  have  been  over  to  Ox 
ford  to  get  a  D.C.L.  So  by  the  time  you  get  it  this 
will  be  the  letter  of  a  Doctor  and  entitled  to  the  more 
respect.  Perhaps,  in  order  to  get  the  full  flavor,  you 


102  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1873 

had  better  read  this  passage  first  if  you  happen  to  think 
of  it.  Do  you  not  detect  a  certain  flavor  of  parchment 
and  Civil  Law? 

Mrs.  Lowell  joins  me  in  kind  regards  to  Mrs.  Aldrich 
and  yourself — and  I  am  always 

Yours  cordially, 

J.  R.  L. 

P.  S.  I  have  kept  this  back  for  the  Brest  steamer, 
which  saves  me  fourteen  cents  postage.  We  leave  Paris 
in  a  day  or  two.  I  have  learned  to  like  it  and  the 
French,  which  is  a  great  gain.  We  have  had  a  very 
pleasant  winter  here  in  the  most  French  of  hotels.  But 
Cambridge  is  better,  as  the  rivers  of  Damascus  were 
better  than  Jordan.  There  is  no  place  like  it,  no,  not 
even  for  taxes !  I  am  getting  gray  and  fat — about  J  as 
large  as  Howells. 

TO   THOMAS   HUGHES 

Paris,  June  2,  1873. 

My  dear  Friend, — If  I  am  not  wise  enough  for  a  Doc 
torate,  the  fault  will  be  yours.  The  cap  is  about  to  fall 
on  my  head,  and  you  are  chiefly  to  be  thanked  for  it.  I 
am  as  pleased  as  Punch  at  the  thought  of  having  a  kind 
of  denizenship,  if  nothing  more,  at  Oxford ;  for  though 
the  two  countries  insist  on  misunderstanding  each  other, 
I  can't  conceive  why  the  sensible  men  on  both  sides 
shouldn't  in  time  bring  'em  to  see  the  madness  of  their 
ways.  Born  on  the  edge  of  a  University  town,  I  have 
a  proper  respect  for  academical  decorations,  and  I  am 
provoked  that  I  must  wait  till  1875  before  I  see  myself 


1873]  TO   THOMAS   HUGHES  103 

in  our  triennial  catalogue  with  "D.C.L.  Oxon."  at  my 
tail.  If  I  don't  know  much  Roman  law,  I  shall  at  least 
endeavor  to  do  credit  to  my  new  title  by  being  as  civil 
as  an  orange  to  all  mankind.  .Mr.  Bernard  has  been 
good  enough  to  invite  me  to  stay  with  him  during  my 
visit  to  Oxford,  so  I  am  sure  to  be  in  good  hands.  I 
do  not  know  whether  you  old  Oxonians  attend  the  Uni 
versity  festivals  or  not,  but  I  shall  not  feel  properly  Doc 
tored  unless  you  are  to  the  fore.  My  visit  will  be  a  fly 
ing  one  at  best,  for  I  shall  leave  Mrs.  Lowell  at  Bruges. 

My  last  trip  to  England  did  me  good.  My  eyes — 
whether  it  was  the  friends  I  saw  or  no  I  can't  say — have 
been  better  ever  since.  England  looked  so  lovely  after 
France,  though  I  can't  yet  quite  make  out  why.  But 
the  land  of  the  Gauls  has  the  advantage  that  one  can 
live  on  his  income  there. 

We  have  had  a  revolution  since  I  saw  you — not  so 
much  of  a  one  as  your  papers  in  England  seem  to  think, 
however.  The  conservatives  never  had  any  intention  of 
making  a  president  of  the  Due  d'Aumale,  and  though  I 
never  make  prophecies,  yet  I  am  sure  their  present  inten 
tion  (as  it  is  their  only  good  policy)  is  to  keep  things 
steady  as  they  are.  But  you  remember  how  the  great 
Julius  begins — "  Omnis  divisa  est  Gallia  in  partes  tres." 
That  is,  into  three  parties — monarchists,  Bonapartists, 
and  republicans,  who  have  to  pull  together  for  their 
own  ends,  and  therefore,  whether  they  will  or  no,  must 
help  the  conservative  republic.  Henri  V.  is  out  of  the 
question,  and  the  radical  republic  equally  so  —  I  mean, 
as  a  thing  that  could  endure.  Meanwhile  the  legiti 
mists  are  a  drag  on  the  Orleanists,  and  whatever  Bo- 


104  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1873 

napartism  there  is  among  the  masses  means  merely  a 
longing  for  order  and  peace.  Whatever  government 
can  secure  these  for  a  year  or  two  will  become  the 
residuary  legatee  of  the  Empire. 

I  think  it  was  the  egotism  of  Thiers  that  overset  him 
rather  than  any  policy  he  was  supposed  to  have,  and  I 
look  on  the  peacefulness  of  the  late  change  as  a  most 
hopeful  augury  for  France.  I  believe  in  the  bewilder 
ing  force  of  names,  but  I  believe  also  that  things  carry 
it  in  the  long  run.  The  French  are  a  frugal,  sensible, 
industrious,  and  conservative  people,  and  if  they  can 
only  keep  the  beggar  prince  out  of  the  saddle,  they 
won't  be  ridden  to  the  devil  so  easily  in  future. 

We  shall  leave  Paris  to-morrow  or  next  day,  stop 
ping  in  Rheims  to  see  the  churches,  at  Louvain  for  the 
Town  House,  and  so  on  to  Antwerp,  Ghent,  and  Bruges. 
If  you  write,  address  me  "  poste  restante  "  at  the  last 
named. 

I  promised  your  little  girl,  when  I  was  in  London,  to 
send  her  an  autograph  from  Paris,  so  I  have  scribbled 
her  a  few  nonsense-verses  which  I  hope  will  serve  her 
turn.  If  I  don't  see  you  in  Oxford,  I  shall  stop  long 
enough  in  London  to  get  a  glimpse  of  you.  Our  plan 
is  to  go  to  Switzerland  and  Germany,  and  so  down  to 
Italy  for  the  winter.  Then  back  to  Paris,  and  so  over 
to  England  on  our  way  home  next  year.  I  hate  trav 
elling  with  my  whole  soul,  though  I  like  well  enough 
to  "  be  "  in  places. 

With  kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Hughes,  I  remain  always 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 


1873]  TO   MRS.  LEWIS   A.  STIMSON  105 

TO   MRS.  LEWIS  A.  STIMSON 

Bruges,  June  25,  1873. 

My  dear  Mrs.  Stimson,  —  Here  are  the  poor  little 
verses  I  wrote  the  night  before  we  left  Paris  and  prom 
ised  to  send  you.  They  have  been  rattling  about  in 
Mrs.  Lowell's  portfolio  ever  since,  but  I  cannot  see  that 
they  are  at  all  the  wiser  for  their  travels.  This  is  the 
first  chance  I  have  had  to  copy  them  out  for  you. 

"  You  may  break,  you  may  shatter  the  vase  if  you  will, 
The  scent  of  the  roses  will  hang  round  it  still." 

Lucretius  first,  as  I  suppose, 
Ventured  to  fasten  on  the  nose 
A  simile  both  rich  and  rare, 
As  savages  hang  jewels  there ; 
Perhaps  he  stole  it  from  some  Greek 
Whose  poem  lost  'twere  vain  to  seek ; 
Perhaps  he  found  it  (if  it  -wese-  was  his) 
By  simply  following  his  proboscis ; 
At  any  rate  'tis  no  wise  dim 
That  Tom  Moore  borrowed  it  of  him, 
And  thinned  it  to  the  filagree 
Which  at  my  verses'  top  you  see. 

Some  other  poet  'twas,  no  doubt, 
Who  found  a  further  secret  out — 
I  mean,  those  intimate  relations 
'Twixt  perfumes  and  associations ; 
Nay,  'twixt  a  smell  of  any  kind 
And  the  recesses  of  the  mind, 
Since  Memory  is  reached  by  no  door 
So  quickly  as  by  that  of  odor. 


106  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1873 

Now,  what  do  all  these  steps  lead  up  to? 

Why  not  speak  frankly  ex  abrnpto  ? 

They  lead  to  this — that  when  I'm  gone, 

And  you  sit  trying  fancies  on, 

Puzzling  your  brain  with  buts  and  maybes 

About  the  future  of  your  babies, 

Planning  some  bow  (Oh,  sure,  no  harm) 

To  give  your  looks  a  heightened  charm — 

Sudden  you'll  give  a  little  sniff 

And  say:  "It  surely  seems  as  if  4 

There  was  an  odor  in  the  room 

Not  just  like  mignonette  in  bloom, 

Nor  like  the  breeze  that  brings  away 

Sweet  messages  of  new-mown  hay : — 

What  ?     No !     Why,  yes,  it  is  indeed 

Stale  traces  of  that  hateful  weed 

The  red  man  to  his  spoilers  left, 

Fatal  as  Nessus'  burning  weft." 

And  then  with  eyes  still  fixed  in  vision, 

Unconscious  of  the  least  transition, 

"  I  wonder  what  the  kfftvHk  Lowles  are  doing, 

What  bit  of  scenery  pursuing. 

Do  they  in  Switzerland  repent? 

Or,  o'er  their  guardian  Murrays  bent, 

Do  they  endeavor  to  divine 

Why  they  must  needs  enjoy  the  Rhine  ? 

Count  they  the  shocks  the  German  kitchen 

Is  so  incomparably  rich  in  ? 

Do  they  across  Lugano  steer 

In  whose  ethereal  silence  clear 

It  seems  that  one  might  hear  a  fin  stir? 

Or,  in  some  grim  and  chilly  minster, 

Are  they  condemned  to  dog  the  Suisse 

Through  nasal  rounds  of  that  and  this, 

Till,  to  the  very  marrow  chilled, 

They  wish  men  had  not  learned  to  build  ? 


1873]  TO    MRS.   LEWIS   A.   STIMSON  107 

Or,  bored  with  Tintorets  and  Titians 

And  saints  in  all  the  queer  positions 

They  can  be  twisted  to  with  paints, 

Do  they  wish  wicked  things  of  saints  ? 

Well,  she  was  pleasant  as  could  be, 

So  sweet  and  cheerful  too — but  kel 

He  left  behind  at  every  visit 

Tobacco  perfumes  so  explicit, 

That  in  the  night  I  often  woke 

Thinking  myself  about  to  choke. 

I  wish  I  had  his  pipe  to  throw  it 

Into  the  fire — a  pretty  poet ! 

Whene'er  he's  buried,  those  that  love  him, 

Instead  of  violets  sweet  above  him, 

Should  plant,  to  soothe  his  melancholy, 

The  poisonous  herb  brought  home  by  Raleigh!" 


Now,  when  such  vixenish  thoughts  assail  you. 

And  other  lenitives  all  fail  you, 

Do  like  the  children,  who  are  wiser 

And  happier  far  than  king  or  kaiser: 

Play  that  a  thing  is  thus  or  so, 

And  gradually  you'll  find  it  grow 

The  very  truth  (for  bale  or  bliss) 

Of  what  you  fancy  that  it  is ; 

Just  call  the  weed,  to  try  the  spell, 

Nepenthe,  lotus,  asphodel, 

And  say  my  pipe  was  such  as  those 

The  slim  Arcadian  shepherd  blows 

On  old  sarcophagi  to  lull 

An  ear  these  twenty  centuries  dull — 

Pipe  of  such  sweet  and  potent  tone 

It  charmed  to  shapes  of  deathless  stone 

The  piper  and  the  dancers  too 

(As  may  mine  never  do  for  you, 


108  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1873 

But  keep  you  rather  fresh  and  fair 

To  breathe  the  sweetest  mortal  air). 

Then,  when  your  thought  has  worked  its  will, 

And  turned  to  sweetness  things  of  ill, 

Muse  o'er  your  girlish  smile  and  say, 

"Well,  now  he's  fairly  gone  away, 

If  on  his  faults  one  does  not  dwell, 

There  are  worse  bores  than  J.  R.  L." 

There  s  an  autograph  for  you !  As  long  as  one  of 
Bach's  fugues.  Remember  us  to  M.  Carrier  and  Ma 
dame  and  Clarisse.  Tell  Baptiste  (if  he  has  not  already 
boned  it)  that  an  old  coat  I  left  on  a  chair  in  my  bed 
room  was  meant  for  him.  I  have  been  over  to  Oxford 
to  be  doctored,  and  had  a  very  pleasant  time  of  it. 
You  would  respect  me  if  you  could  have  seen  me  in 
my  scarlet  gown.  Kindest  regards  from  both  of  us  to 
both  of  you.  We  go  from  here  in  a  day  or  two  to 
Holland  —  then  up  the  Rhine  to  Switzerland,  where 
we  join  the  Stephens  and  Miss  Thackeray. 

You  must  pardon  the  verses — my  hand  is  out.  The 
writing  looks  something  like  mine — not  much. 

Good-by ;  give  an  orange  to  each  of  the  children  for 
me,  and  believe  me  yours  affectionately  always, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO  C.  E.  NORTON 

Venice,  Oct.  30,  1873. 

.  .  .  We  made  a  pretty  good  giro  in  the  Low  Coun 
tries,  going  wherever  there  was  a  good  Cathedral  or 
Town  Hall.  Ypres  charmed  us  especially,  even  after 
Bruges,  which  is  always  a  Capua  for  me.  The  little 
town  is  so  quiet  and  sleepy — no,  not  sleepy,  but  drowsy 


IS73]  TO   C.  E.  NORTON  109 

and  dreamy,  and  the  walk  round  the  ramparts  looking 
out  over  endless  green  and  down  upon  the  tranquil 
moat,  with  its  swans  as  still  as  the  water-lilies  whose 
whiteness  they  tarnished,  that  I  felt  sure  I  was  an 
enchanted  prince  till  I  paid  my  bill  at  the  inn.  But 
for  that  I  should  assuredly  have  stumbled  upon  the 
Sleeping  Beauty  before  long.  But,  alas  and  alas,  the 
only  kiss  that  awakens  towns  that  have  dropt  asleep 
nowadays  is  that  of  Dame  Trade,  who  makes  bond 
slaves  of  all  she  brings  back  to  life.  We  passed  by 
where  Charlemagne  (with  Mr.  Freeman's  pardon)  is  said 
to  have  been  born,  and  by  a  little  town  that  gave 
me  a  pleasanter  thrill — the  birthplace  of  Dan  Froissart. 
It  lay  about  half  a  mile  away,  cuddled  among  trees, 
with  its  great  hulk  of  a  church  looming  up  above  the 
houses  like  a  hen  among  her  brood.  I  did  not  choose 
to  see  it  nearer — it  would  have  betrayed  itself.  As  it 
was,  I  must  have  seen  it  very  much  as  it  looked  to  the 
dear  old  canon  himself,  when  he  used  to  play  at  all 
those  incomprehensible  games  of  which  he  gives  us  an 
inventory  in  his  verses.  .  .  . 

I  am  more  impressed  by  Tintoretto  than  ever  before 
— his  force,  his  freedom,  and  his  originality.  I  never 
fairly  saw  the  San  Rocco  pictures  before — for  one  must 
choose  the  brightest  days  for  them.  The  "  Annuncia 
tion  "  especially  has  taken  me  by  assault.  That  flight 
of  baby  angels  caught  up  and  whirled  along  in  the  wake 
of  Gabriel  like  a  skurry  of  autumn  birds  is  to  me  some 
thing  incomparable.  And  then  the  Cimas  and  the  Bel- 
linis  and  the  Carpaccios!  I  think  I  am  really  happy 
here  for  the  first  time  since  I  came  abroad. 


110  LETTERS   OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1873 

I  am  looking  forward  now  with  compressed  eagerness 
to  our  coming  home.  I  shall  not  overstay  my  two  years 
by  a  single  day  if  I  can  help  it.  ...  For  myself  I  see 
no  result  as  yet  but  rest — which,  to  be  sure,  is  a  good 
thing — but  I  suppose  when  I  get  back  I  shall  find  I 
have  learned  something.  But  habit  is  so  strong  in  me 
that  I  cannot  work  outside  the  reach  of  my  wonted 
surroundings.  .  .  . 

TO  THOMAS   HUGHES 

Venice,  Thanksgiving  Day,  1873. 

My  dear  Friend, — As  you  are  one  of  the  good  things 
I  have  to  be  thankful  for  in  this  life,  I  naturally  think 
of  you  to-day,  when  I  am  far  from  the  roast  turkeys 
and  plum-puddings  of  Elmwood.  It  makes  me  a  lit 
tle  sad  to  think  that,  if  I  were  at  home,  this  would  have 
been  the  first  of  these  festivals  that  I  should  have  cele 
brated  in  the  true  patriarchal  way  with  a  grandson  at 
my  board.  It  is  a  queer  sensation  when  one  begins  to 
put  out  these  feelers  towards  the  future  that  are  to  keep 
us  alive  in  a  certain  sense  (perhaps  to  repeat  us)  after 
we  are  gone.  It  is  a  melancholy  kind  of  meditation 
this,  but  travelling  is  melancholy — a  constant  succes 
sion  of  partings  like  life.  To-day  some  very  agreeable 
Portuguese  leave  us  whose  acquaintance  we  made  here, 
the  Viscount  de  Several,  his  wife,  and  daughter.  They 
have  lived  much  in  England,  and  he,  I  suspect,  must 
have  been  either  ambassador  or  attached  to  the  Portu 
guese  embassy  there.  To-morrow  two  English  ladies, 
whom  I  had  just  learned  to  like  very  much,  go  off  to 
Cairo.  It  is  just  like  a  constant  succession  of  funerals 


1873]  TO   THOMAS   HUGHES  III 

— only  people  are  buried  in  distance  instead  of  in  earth. 
Nay,  since  the  earth  is  round,  they  will  be  covered 
from  us  by  that  also  as  in  the  grave. 

The  truth  is,  my  dear  friend,  I  have  just  been  trying 
to  make  up  my  accounts,  and  as  I  don't  very  well  know 
how,  I  have  got  dumpy  before  them — for  the  mysteri 
ous  is  always  rather  a  damper  for  the  spirits.  More 
over,  I  am  bored.  I  can't  "  do  "  anything  over  here 
except  study  a  little  now  and  then,  and  I  long  to  get 
back  to  my  reeky  old  den  at  Elmwood.  Then  I  hope 
to  find  I  have  learned  something  in  my  two  years 
abroad.  .  .  . 

We  have  been  through  Switzerland,  where  I  climbed 
some  of  the  highest  peaks  with  a  spy-glass — a  method  I 
find  very  agreeable,  and  which  spares  honest  sole-leath 
ers.  I  am  thinking  of  getting  up  an  achromatic-tele 
scope  Alpine  Club,  to  which  none  will  be  admitted  till 
they  have  had  two  fits  of  gout,  authenticated  by  a  doc 
tor's  bill. 

So  far  I  wrote  yesterday.  To-day  the  weather  is  tri 
umphant,  and  my  views  of  life  consequently  more  cheer 
ful.  It  is  so  warm  that  we  are  going  out  presently  in 
the  gondola,  to  take  up  a  few  dropped  stitches.  Ven 
ice,  after  all,  is  incomparable,  and  during  this  visit  I 
have  penetrated  its  little  slits  of  streets  in  every  direc 
tion  on  foot.  The  canals  only  give  one  a  visiting  ac 
quaintance.  The  calli  make  you  an  intimate  of  the 
household.  I  have  found  no  books  except  two  or  three 
in  the  Venetian  dialect.  I  am  looking  forward  to  home 
now,  and  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  took  up  my  work  at 
Harvard  again,  as  they  wish  me  to  do. 


112  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1874 

We    leave  Venice   probably   to-morrow   for  Verona. 
Thence  to  Florence,  Rome,  and  Naples.  .  .  . 


TO   MISS  NORTON 

Florence,  Jan.  7,  1874. 

.  .  .  You  find  our  beloved  country  dull,  it  seems.  With 
a  library  like  that  at  Shady  Hill  all  lands  are  next  door 
and  all  nations  within  visiting  distance — better  still,  all 
ages  are  contemporary  with  us.  But  I  understand  your 
feeling,  I  think.  Women  need  social  stimulus  more  than 
we.  They  contribute  to  it  more,  and  their  magnetism, 
unless  drawn  off  by  the  natural  conductors,  turns  inward 
and  irritates.  Well,  when  I  come  back  I  shall  be  a  good 
knob  on  which  to  vent  some  of  your  superfluous  electrici 
ty  ;  though  on  second  thoughts  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that, 
for  the  Leyden  jar  after  a  while  becomes  clever  enough 
to  give  off  sparks  in  return.  But,  dear  Jane,  the  world  in 
general  is  loutish  and  dull.  I  am  more  and  more  struck 
with  it,  and  a  certain  sprightliness  of  brain,  with  which  I 
came  into  life,  is  driven  in  on  myself  by  continual  rebuffs 
of  misapprehension.  I  have  grown  wary  and  don't  dare 
to  let  myself  go,  and  what  are  we  good  for  if  our  natural 
temperament  doesn't  now  and  then  take  the  bit  between 
its  teeth  and  scamper  till  our  hair  whistles  in  the  wind  ? 
But  indeed  America  is  too  busy,  too  troubled  about 
many  things,  and  Martha  is  only  good  to  make  pud 
dings.  There  is  no  leisure,  and  that  is  the  only  climate 
in  which  society  is  indigenous,  the  only  one  in  which 
good-humor  and  wit  and  all  the  growths  of  art  are  more 
than  half-hardy  exotics.  It  is  not  that  one  needs  to  be 


1874]  TO   MISS   GRACE   NORTON  113 

idle — but  only  to  have  this  southern  atmosphere  about 
him.  Democracies  lie,  perhaps,  too  far  north.  You  were 
made — with  your  breadth  of  sympathy,  the  contagion  of 
your  temperament,  and  the  social  go  of  your  mind — to 
drive  the  four-in-hand  of  a  saton,  and  American  life  boxes 
us  all  up  in  a  one-horse  sulky  of  absorbing  occupation. 
We  are  isolated  in  our  own  despite,  the  people  who  have 
a  common  ground  of  sympathy  in  pursuits  (or  the  want 
of  them)  are  rare,  and  without  partnership  the  highest 
forms  of  culture  are  impossible.  .  .  . 


TO   MISS   GRACE  NORTON 

Florence,  Jan.  27,  1874. 

.  .  .  We  have  been  living  very  quietly  here  in  Flor 
ence,  which  I  find  very  beautiful  in  spite  of  the  threnody 
Charles  once  wrote  me  about  the  loss  of  the  walls.  I 
hate  changes  in  my  familiar  earth — they  give  me  a  feel 
ing  as  if  I  myself  had  been  transplanted  and  my  roots 
unpleasantly  disturbed  ;  but  I  was  not  intimate  enough 
with  Florence  to  be  discomforted,  and  the  older  parts  of 
the  town,  which  I  chiefly  haunt,  have  a  noble  mediaeval 
distance  and  reserve  for  me — a  frown  I  was  going  to  call 
it,  not  of  hostility,  but  of  haughty  doubt.  These  grim 
palace  fronts  meet  you  with  an  aristocratic  stare  that 
puts  you  to  the  proof  of  your  credentials.  There  is  to 
me  something  wholesome  in  it  that  makes  you  feel  your 
place.  As  for  pictures,  I  am  tired  to  death  of  'em,  and 
never  could  enjoy  them  much  when  I  had  to  run  them 
down.  And  then  most  of  them  are  so  bad.  I  like  best 
the  earlier  ones,  that  say  so  much  in  their  half-uncon- 
II.— 8 


114  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1874 

scious  prattle,  and  talk  nature  to  me  instead  of  high  art 
— spell  the  last  two  words  with  capitals,  if  you  please. 
You  see  that  they  honestly  mean  to  say  something  out 
side  of  themselves,  and  not  to  make  you  think  about 
themselves.  Children  talk  so,  whose  want  of  language 
often  gives  a  pungency  to  their  speech  which  the  dic 
tionary  cannot  give,  but,  alas,  can  take  away.  There  is 
an  instructive  difference  between  the  simple  honesty  of 
the  earlier  painters'  portraits  of  themselves  and  the  con 
scious  attitudinizing  of  the  later  ones,  which  expresses 
what  I  mean.  But  the  truth  is,  as  Northcote  says  the 
choristers  used  to  sing  at  St.  Paul's,  "  I'm  tired  and  want 
to  go  home  "  !  .  .  . 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Albergo  del  Norte,  Firenze, 
Feb.  2,  1874. 

My  dear  Boy, —  ...  I  don't  feel  like  going  on  with  a 
poem  I  am  writing  about  Agassiz,  whom  I  understood 
and  liked  better  as  I  grew  older  (perhaps  less  provincial), 
and  whom  I  shall  miss  as  if  some  familiar  hill  should  be 
gone  out  of  my  horizon  when  I  come  home  and  walk 
down  the  river-side  to  the  village,  as  we  used  to  call  it ;  so 
I  am  going  to  answer  your  letter,  which  came  yesterday. 
...  I  never  was  good  for  much  as  a  professor — once  a 
week,  perhaps,  at  the  best,  when  I  could  manage  to  get 
into  some  conceit  of  myself,  and  so  could  put  a  little  of 
my  go  into  the  boys.  The  rest  of  the  time  my  desk  was 
as  good  as  I.  And  then,  on  the  other  hand,  my  being  a 
professor  wasn't  good  for  me — it  damped  my  gunpowder, 
as  it  were,  and  my  mind,  when  it  took  fire  at  all  (which 


1874]  TO    C.    E.    NORTON  11$ 

wasn't  often),  drawled  off  in  an  unwilling  fuse  instead  of 
leaping  to  meet  the  first  spark.  Since  I  have  discharged 
my  soul  of  it  and  see  the  callus  on  my  ankle,  where  the 
ball  and  chain  used  to  be,  subsiding  gradually  to  smooth 
and  natural  skin,  I  feel  like  dancing  round  the  table  as  I 
used  when  I  was  twenty,  to  let  off  the  animal  spirits.  If 
I  were  a  profane  man,  I  should  say,  "Darn  the  Col 
lege!"  .  .  . 

TO   THE    SAME 

Palazzo  Barberini,  Rome, 
Feb.  26,  1874. 

...  I  sent  you  the  other  day  from  Florence  a  long 
poem  (too  long,  I  fear),  in  the  nature  of  an  elegy  on 
Agassiz.  His  death  came  home  to  me  in  a  singular 
way,  growing  into  my  consciousness  from  day  to  day  as 
if  it  were  a  graft  new-set,  that  by  degrees  became  part  of 
my  own  wood  and  drew  a  greater  share  of  my  sap  than 
belonged  to  it,  as  grafts  sometimes  will.  I  suppose  that, 
unconsciously  to  myself,  a  great  part  of  the  ferment  it 
produced  in  me  was  owing  to  the  deaths  of  my  sister 

Anna,*  of  Mrs. ,  whom  I  knew  as  a   child  in  my 

early  manhood,  and  of  my  cousin  Amory,  who  was  in 
extricably  bound  up  with  the  primal  associations  of  my 
life,  associations  which  always  have  a  singular  sweet 
ness  for  me.  A  very  deep  chord  had  been  touched  also 
at  Florence  by  the  sight  of  our  old  lodgings  in  the  Casa 
Guidi,  of  the  balcony  Mabel  used  to  run  on,  and  the 
windows  we  used  to  look  out  at  so  long  ago.  I  got 
sometimes  into  the  mood  I  used  to  be  in  when  I  was 
always  repeating  to  myself, 

*  Mrs.  Charles  R.  Lowell. 


Il6  LETTERS    OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1874 

"  King  Pandion  he  is  dead ; 
All  thy  friends  are  lapt  in  lead  " — 

verses  which  seem  to  me  desolately  pathetic.  At  last  I 
began  to  hum  over  bits  of  my  poem  in  my  head  till  it 
took  complete  possession  of  me  and  worked  me  up  to  a 
delicious  state  of  excitement,  all  the  more  delicious  as 
my  brain  (or  at  any  rate  the  musical  part  of  it)  had  been 
lying  dormant  so  long.  I  couldn't  sleep,  and  when  I 
walked  out  I  saw  nothing  outward.  My  old  trick  of 
seeing  things  with  my  eyes  shut  after  I  had  gone  to 
bed  (I  mean  whimsical  things  utterly  alien  to  the  train 
of  my  thoughts — for  example,  a  hospital  ward  with  a 
long  row  of  white,  untenanted  beds,  and  on  the  farthest 
a  pile  of  those  little  wooden  dolls  with  red-painted  slip 
pers)  revived  in  full  force.  Nervous,  horribly  nervous, 
but  happy  for  the  first  time  (I  mean  consciously  happy) 
since  I  came  over  here.  And  so  by  degrees  my  poem 
worked  itself  out.  The  parts  came  to  me  as  I  came 
awake,  and  I  wrote  them  down  in  the  morning.  I  had 
all  my  bricks — but  the  mortar  wouldn't  set,  as  the  ma 
sons  say.  However,  I  got  it  into  order  at  last.  You 
will  see  there  is  a  logical  sequence  if  you  look  sharp. 
It  was  curious  to  me  after  it  was  done  to  see  how  flesh 
ly  it  was.  This  impression  of  Agassiz  had  wormed  it 
self  into  my  consciousness,  and  without  my  knowing  it 
had  colored  my  whole  poem.  I  could  not  help  feeling 
how,  if  I  had  been  writing  of  Emerson,  for  example,  I 
should  have  been  quite  otherwise  ideal.  But  there  it  is, 
and  you  can  judge  for  yourself.  I  think  there  is  some 
go  in  it  somehow,  but  it  is  too  near  me  yet  to  be 
judged  fairly  by  me.  It  is  old-fashioned,  you  see,  but 
none  the  worse  for  that. 


1874]  TO    MISS   NORTON  117 

TO  MISS  NORTON 

Albergo  Crocolle,  Napoli, 
Marzo  12,  1874. 

My  dear  Jane, — If  I  should  offer  to  explain  any  ec 
centricities  of  chirography  by  telling  you  my  ringers 
were  numb,  you  would  think  me  joking,  and  be  much 
rather  inclined  to  account  for  it  by  the  intoxication  of 
this  heavenliest  of  climates  as  you  remember  it.  But  I 
speak  forth  the  words  of  truth  and  soberness  when  I 
assure  you  that  Vesuvius  is  hoary  with  snow  to  his  very 
roots,  that  Sorrento  has  just  been  hidden  by  a  cloud 
which  I  doubt  not  is  bursting  in  hail,  for  we  were 
greeted  on  our  arrival  last  night  by  a  hailstone  chorus 
of  the  most  emphatic  kind,  so  that  the  streets  were 
white  with  it  as  we  drove  shiveringly  along,  and  the 
top  of  the  'bus  rattled  to  the  old  tune  of  "  Pease  on  a 
Trencher."  All  the  way  from  Rome  I  saw  Virgil's  too- 
fortunate  husbandmen  (he  was  right  in  his  parenthetic 
sua  si  bona  norinf)  working  with  their  great  blue  cloaks 
on,  or  crouching  under  hedges  from  the  wire -edged 
wind.  The  very  teeth  in  their  harrows  must  have  been 
chattering  for  cold.  And  this  is  the  climate  you  so 
rapturously  wish  us  joy  of!  Vedi  Napoli,  e  poi  morl  of 
a  catarrh.  I  envy  you  with  your  foot  of  honest  snow 
on  the  ground  where  it  ought  to  be,  and  not  indigested 
in  the  atmosphere,  giving  it  a  chill  beyond  that  of  con 
densed  Unitarianism. 

We  left  Rome  after  a  fortnight's  visit  to  the  Storys, 
which  was  very  pleasant  quoad  the  old  friends,  but  rath 
er  wild  and  whirling  quoad  the  new.  Two  receptions 
a  week,  one  in  the  afternoon  and  one  in  the  evening, 


Il8  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1874 

were  rather  confusing  for  wits  so  eremetical  as  mine. 
I  am  not  equal  to  the  grande  monde.  'Tis  very  well 
of  its  kind,  I  dare  say,  but  it  is  not  my  kind,  and  I  still 
think  the  company  I  kept  at  home  better  than  any  I 
have  seen — especially  better  in  its  simplicity.  The  Old 
World  carries  too  much  top-hamper  for  an  old  salt  like 
me  to  be  easy  in  his  hammock.  There  are  good  things 
west  of  the  ocean  in  spite  of  —  -  's  pessimism,  and  bet 
ter  things  to  come,  let  us  hope.  .  .  . 

I  had  a  great  pleasure  at  Rome  in  seeing  William's 
new  statue  of  Alcestis,  which  I  think  is  di  gran  lungo 
ahead  of  anything  he  has  done.  It  is  very  simple  and 
noble.  She  is  walking  as  if  in  a  dream.  The  right 
hand  gathers  the  mantle  about  her  head.  The  left 
hangs  loosely  at  her  side.  The  face  has  a  lovely  ex 
pression  of  awakening  and  half-bewildered  expectation. 
The  drapery  is  admirably  graceful,  and  the  gliding  mo 
tion  of  the  figure  (seen  from  whichever  point  of  view) 
gives  a  unity  of  intention  and  feeling  to  the  whole  fig 
ure  which  I  call  masterly.  I  know  no  satisfaction  more 
profound  than  that  we  feel  in  the  success  of  an  old 
friend,  in  the  real  success  of  anybody,  for  the  matter  of 
that.  It  was  so  pleasant  to  be  able  to  say  frankly, 
"You  have  done  something  really  fine,  and  which  every 
body  will  like."  I  wonder  whether  I  shall  ever  give 
that  pleasure  to  anybody.  Never  mind,  it  is  next  best 
to  feel  it  about  the  work  of  another,  and  I  never  do 
care  very  long  for  anything  I  have  done  myself.  But, 
as  one  gets  older,  one  can't  help  feeling  sad  sometimes 
to  think  how  little  one  has  achieved. 

It  is  now  (as  regards  my  date)  to-morrow  the  I3th. 


1874]  TO   MISS   NORTON  119 

We  have  been  twice  to  the  incomparable  Museum, 
which  to  me  is  the  most  interesting  in  the  world. 
There  is  the  keyhole  through  which  we  barbarians  can 
peep  into  a  Greek  interior — provincial  Greek,  Roman 
Greek,  if  you  will,  but  still  Greek.  Vesuvius  should  be 
sainted  for  this  miracle  of  his  —  hiding  Pompeii  and 
Herculaneum  under  his  gray  mantle  so  long,  and  sav 
ing  them  from  those  dreadful  melters  and  smashers,  the 
Dark  Ages.  Now  we  come  in  on  them  with  the  smell 
of  wine  still  in  their  cups — we  catch  them  boiling  their 
eggs,  selling  their  figs,  and  scribbling  naughty  things 
on  the  walls.  I  do  not  find  that  they  were  much  our 
betters  in  parietal  wit,  but  in  sense  of  form  how  they 
dwarf  us !  They  contrived  to  make  commonplace 
graceful — or  rather  they  could  not  help  it.  Well,  we 
are  alive  (after  a  fashion)  and  they  dead.  That  is  one 
advantage  we  have  over  'em.  And  they  could  not  look 
forward  to  going  home  to  Cambridge  and  to  pleasant 
visits  at  Shady  Hill.  On  the  whole,  I  pity  'em.  They 
are  welcome  to  their  poor  little  bronzes  and  things. 
Haven't  we  our  newspapers,  marry  come  up !  What 
did  they  know  about  the  Duke  of  Edinburgh's  wed 
ding  and  all  the  other  edifying  things  that  make  us 
wise  and  great,  I  should  like  to  know?  They  were 
poor  devils,  after  all,  and  I  trample  on  'em  and  snub 
'em  to  my  heart's  content.  Where  were  their  Common 
Schools?  They  are  dumb  and  cast  down  their  eyes, 
every  mother's  son  of  'em.  Not  a  school-desk  among 
all  their  relics !  No  wonder  they  came  to  grief. 

It  is  now  after  dinner.     I  write  this  by  installments, 
as  the  amiable  bandits  of  this  neighborhood  send  a  man 


120  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1874 

they  have  caught  home  to  his  friends  till  they  pay  a 
ransom — first  one  ear,  then  the  other,  and  so  on.  I  am 
a  little  cross  with  the  table-d'hote,  because  I  always 
know  so  well  what  is  coming — it  is  like  the  signs  of  the 
zodiac.  I  think  we  should  be  bored  to  death  with  the 
regular  courses  of  the  seasons  were  it  not  for  the  whim 
sicality  of  the  weather.  That  saves  us  from  suicide. 
On  the  other  hand,  though  depressed  by  the  inevitable 
rosbif  and  polio  arrostito,  I  am  enlivened  by  a  fiddle 
and  guitar,  and  a  voice  singing  the  Naples  of  twenty 
years  ago  under  my  window.  For  Naples  has  changed 
for  the  worse  (shade  of  Stuart  Mill !  I  mean  for  the 
better)  more  than  any  other  Italian  city.  Fancy,  there 
are  no  more  lazzaroni,  there  is  no  more  corricolo.  The 
mountains  are  here,  and  Capri,  but  where  is  Naples  ? 
Italia  unita  will  be  all  very  well  one  of  these  days,  I 
doubt  not.  At  present  it  is  paper  money,  and  the  prac 
tical  instead  of  the  picturesque.  Is  the  day  of  railways 
worse  than  that  of  Judgment  ?  Why  could  not  one 
country  be  taken  and  the  other  left  ?  Let  them  try  all 
their  new  acids  of  universal  suffrage  and  what  not  on 
the  tough  body  of  the  New  World.  The  skin  will  heal 
again.  But  this  lovely,  disburied  figure  of  Ausonia — 
they  corrode  her  marble  surface  beyond  all  cure.  Pa- 
nem  et  circenses  wasn't  so  bad  after  all.  A  bellyful  and 
amusement — isn't  that  more  than  the  average  mortal  is 
apt  to  get?  more  than  perhaps  he  is  capable  of  get 
ting?  America  gives  the  panem,  but  do  you  find  it 
particularly  amusing  just  now?  My  dear  Jane,  you  see 
I  have  had  a  birthday  since  I  wrote  last,  and  these  are 
the  sentiments  of  a  gentleman  of  fifty-five — and  after 


1874]  TO    C.   E.   NORTON    AND    W.  D.   HOWELLS  121 

dinner.  Change  in  itself  becomes  hateful  to  us  as  we 
grow  older,  and  naturally  enough,  because  every  change 
in  ourselves  is  for  the  worse.  I  am  writing  to  you,  for 
example,  by  lamp-light,  and  I  feel  what  used  to  be  a 
pleasure  almost  a  sin.  To-morrow  morning  I  shall  see 
that  the  crows  have  been  drinking  at  my  eyes.  Fanny 
is  wiser  (as  women  always  are),  and  is  sound  asleep  in 
her  arm-chair  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire.  The  wood 
here,  by  the  way,  is  poplar — good  for  the  inn-keeper, 
but  only  cheering  for  the  guest,  as  it  reminds  him  of 
the  Horatian  large  super  foco  ligna  reponens,  and  the 
old  fellow  in  Smollett,  whom  you  never  read.  .  .  . 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Hotel  de  Lorraine,  7  Rue  de  Beaune, 
Paris,  May  n,  1874. 

...  Hearty  thanks  for  all  the  trouble  you  have 
taken  about  my  poor  old  poem.  I  had  quite  got  over 
the  first  flush  by  the  time  I  saw  it  in  print,  and  now  it 
seems  weary,  stale,  flat,  and  unprofitable  enough,  God 
knows !  Well,  I  confess  1  thought  it  better  till  I  saw 
it.  ... 

TO  W.  D.  HOWELLS 

Paris,  May  13, 1874. 

My  dear  Howells, — I  was  very  glad  to  get  a  line  from 
you.  I  should  have  sent  my  poem  directly  to  you  (for 
it  tickled  me  that  our  positions  should  be  reversed,  and 
that  you  should  be  sitting  in  the  seat  of  the  scorner 
where  I  used  to  sit) ;  but  I  happened  to  see  a  number 
of  the  Atlantic  in  Florence,  and  in  the  list  of  contribu- 


122  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1874 

tors  my  name  was  left  out.  As  the  magazine  had  just 
changed  hands  I  did  not  know  but  it  had  changed  minds 
as  well,  so  I  would  not  put  you  in  a  position  where  your 
friendship  might  come  in  conflict  with  some  whimsey  of 
your  publishers.  Thank  you  heartily  for  the  pleasant 
things  you  say  about  the  poem.  I  thought  it  very  well 
just  after  parturition,  and  explained  any  motives  of  aver 
sion  I  might  feel  by  that  uncomfortable  redness  which  is 
common  to  newly  born  babes.  But  since  I  have  it  in 
print  I  have  not  been  able  to  read  it  through — but  only 
to  dip  in  here  and  there  on  passages  which  C.  E.  N.  had 
doubts  about.  What  a  witch  is  this  Imagination,  who 
sings  as  she  weaves  till  we  seem  to  see  the  music  in  the 
growing  web,  and  when  all  is  done  that  magic  has  van 
ished  and  the  poor  thing  looks  cheap  as  printed  muslin ! 
Well,  I  am  pleased,  all  the  same,  with  what  you  say, 
because,  after  all,  you  needn't  have  said  it  unless  you 
liked. 

Why,  of  course  I  went  to  see  young  Mead — am  I  not 
very  fond  of  his  sister  and  her  husband  ?  I  should  have 
gone  again,  but  that  poem  got  hold  of  me  and  squeezed 
all  my  life  out  for  the  time  and  a  good  bit  after. 

Now  a  word  of  business.  I  wrote  C.  E.  N.  day  before 
yesterday,  and  of  course  forgot  what  I  wished  to  say — 
or  a  part  of  it.  If  Osgood  still  wishes  to  reprint  the 
Agassiz,  pray  make  these  further  corrections — 

"  And  scanned  the  festering  heap  we  all  despise." 
i 

I  left  out  the  word  in  copying.  Instead  of  the  "paler 
primrose  of  a  second  spring,"  read  "  Like  those  pale 
blossoms,"  etc.,  as  I  wrote  at  first.  Why  I  changed  it  I 


1874]  TO    THOMAS    HUGHES  123 

can't  guess,  for  it  makes  an  absurdity.  I  suppose  I  was 
misled  by  the  alliteration.  The  verse  is  a  better  one  as 
printed,  but  I  couldn't  have  looked  at  the  context.  I 
mean  those  blossoms  that  come  on  fruit-trees  sometimes 
in  September.  I  have  seen  them  once  or  twice  in  my 
own  garden. 

We  have  taken  our  passage  for  the  24th  June,  and 
shall  arrive,  if  all  go  well,  in  time  for  the  "  glorious 
Fourth."  I  hope  we  shall  find  you  in  Cambridge.  I 
long  to  get  back,  and  yet  am  just  beginning  to  get 
wonted  (as  they  say  of  babies  and  new  cows)  over  here. 
The  delightful  little  inn  where  I  am  lodged  is  almost 
like  home  to  me,  and  the  people  are  as  nice  as  can  be. 

Tell  Mrs.  Howells — with  my  kindest  regards  and  Mrs. 
Lowell's  too — that  we  are  just  going  out  shopping.  The 
weather  is  infamous.  Love  to  Winny  and  Boy,  alias 

Booah. 

Always  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO   THOMAS   HUGHES 

Hotel  de  Lorraine,  7  Rue  de  Beaune, 
Paris,  May  16,  1874. 

My  dear  Friend, — Here  we  are  back  again  in  our  old 
quarters,  though  not  so  soon  by  several  weeks  as  I  ex 
pected.  But  how  get  away  from  Rome,  even  though  it 
be  changed  much  for  the  worse  so  far  as  its  outside  is 
concerned?  It  is  a  providential  arrangement  that  after 
fifty  one  hates  improvement ;  it  is  the  drag  that  hinders 
things  from  going  too  fast.  In  this  respect  Paris  is  com 
forting,  for  I  find  the  French  exactly  where  I  left  'em  a 
year  ago,  only  more  so. 


124  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1874 

In  your  revolution  I  took  a  personal  interest,  as  I  need 
not  tell  you.  I  happened  to  be  where  I  saw  the  English 
papers  at  the  time,  and  though  I  was  disgusted  that  you 
should  not  have  been  returned,  I  was  entirely  pleased 
with  the  way  in  which  you  lost  your  election.  It  was 
like  you,  for  it  was  honorable  and  magnanimous,  and 
therefore  a  higher  kind  of  success  than  winning  the  seat 
would  have  been.  But  men  like  you  are  wanted  in  Par 
liament,  and  so  I  feel  sure  that  I  shall  have  to  write  M.  P. 
after  your  name  again  before  long.  Last  year  you  said 
something  about  running  over  to  Paris  for  a  week.  It 
would  be  very  jolly  if  you  would  come,  now  that  you 
have  no  Parliamentary  duties  to  detain  you. 

I  can't  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  to  be  on  my  way  home. 
I  hope  after  I  get  there  I  shall  find  I  have  got  some 
thing  by  my  travels  better  than  a  grayer  beard  and  the 
torments  of  what  the  doctors  call  "  suppressed  gout.'*  It 
is  suppressed  after  the  fashion  of  the  Commune,  which 
has  jumped  from  the  Parisian  great  toe  into  every  nerve 
and  muscle  of  the  body.  .  .  . 

TO   LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Hotel  de  Lorraine,  7  Rue  de  Beaune, 

Paris,  May  16,  1874. 

Dear  Stephen, — We  have  got  thus  far  on  our  way 
home,  and  hope  to  arrive  in  England  about  the  first  of 
next  month.  I  was  on  the  point  of  writing  you  again 
from  Florence  when  I  was  suddenly  snatched  up  by  a 
poem  which  occupied  me  wholly  for  some  time,  and  left 
me,  like  a  bit  of  rock-weed  at  low  water,  dangling  help 
less  and  waiting  for  the  next  tide. 


1874]  T0    LESLIE  STEPHEN  125 

I  read  your  book  *  with  great  interest  and,  in  the 
main,  with  great  satisfaction,  and  gave  it  to  Harry 
James,  who  liked  it  altogether.  My  only  objection  to 
any  part  of  your  book  is,  that  I  think  our  beliefs  more 
a  matter  of  choice  (natural  selection,  perhaps,  but  any 
how  not  logical)  than  you  would  admit,  and  that  I  find 
no  fault  with  a  judicious  shutting  of  the  eyes.  You 
would  have  shut  yours  tight  before  you  finally  let  go  at 
the  end  of  your  bad  five  minutes — and  yet  I  fancy  the 
descent  would  have  been  both  interesting  scientifically 
and  morally  picturesque.  .  .  . 

When  I  was  with  the  Storys  in  Rome,  I  took  down 
one  day  while  waiting  for  my  breakfast  a  volume  of  the 
Living  Age,  made  up  of  articles  from  the  English  jour 
nals.  I  hit  upon  one  entitled  "  In  a  Library,"  and  liked 
it  so  much  that  I  carried  it  to  my  room  and  read  all 
the  rest  of  the  series  I  could  find  with  equal  interest. 
There  were  some  more  than  odd  coincidences  with  my 
own  experience.  You  can  fancy  how  tickled  I  was 
when  I  found  I  had  been  reading  you  all  the  while. 
I  actually  damaged  my  eyes  over  them  —  reading  on 
after  candle-light  and  when  I  ought  to  have  been  abed. 
There,  you  see,  is  perfectly  disinterested  testimony. 
The  pills  had  no  label.  I  tried  one  and  then  swal 
lowed  the  box  because  they  did  me  good. 

I  half  feel  at  home  now  that  I  am  back  again  in  my 
little  inn,  with  its  household  as  simple  and  honest  as  if 
it  were  in  Arcadia.  It  amuses  me  (I  know  it  ought  to 
sadden  me,  but  I  can't  help  it)  to  find  the  French  in 

*  This  book  was  "  Essays  on  Free  Thinking  and  Plain  Speak 
ing." 


126  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1874 

the  same  cul-de-sac  where  I  left  them  a  year  ago,  and 
saying  helplessly,  Cest  une  crise  tres  serieuse,  mats  que 
voulez-vous?  Nous  sommes  Franc^ais — voild  tout!  And 
yet  the  same  Frenchmen  have  managed  their  finances 
in  a  way  that  ought  to  make  us  blush  to  the  roots  of 
our  hair.  , 


TO    GEORGE   PUTNAM 

Paris,  May  19,  1874. 

...  I  ought  long  ago  to  have  answered  your  letter, 
received  just  before  we  left  Florence.  But  somehow  I 
could  not.  That  long  list  of  deaths,  following  so  close 
ly  upon  each  other's  heels,  saddened  me  profoundly.  I 
had  a  notion  that  as  we  grow  older  we  get  used  to 
death,  and  in  some  sense  it  is  true,  but  no  habitude  can 
make  us  less  sensible  to  deaths  which  make  us  older 
and  lonelier  by  widening  the  gap  between  our  past  and 
present  selves.  Our  own  lives  seem  to  lose  their  con 
tinuity,  and  those  who  died  long  ago  seem  more  wholly 
dead  when  some  one  who  was  associated  with  them  and 
linked  our  memory  more  indissolubly  with  them  goes 
out  into  the  endless  silence  and  separation.  I  was  very 
much  struck  with  this  when  I  heard  of  the  death  of  my 
cousin  Amory  Lowell.  I  had  hardly  seen  her  for  many 
years,  but  she  was  closely  intertwined  with  all  the  rec 
ollections  of  my  early  life.  I  can't  tell  how,  but  the 
thought  of  her  kept  Broomly  Vale  unchanged,  and  she 
brought  my  father  and  my  uncle  John  before  me  as 
they  were  in  those  old  days.  A  great  part  of  my  fairy 
land  went  to  dust  with  her.  .  .  . 


1874]  TO   LESLIE   STEPHEN  127 

For  my  own  part,  though  I  have  had  a  great  deal  of 
home-sickness,  I  come  back  to  Cambridge  rather  sadly. 
I  have  not  been  over-well  of  late.  The  doctor  in  Rome, 
however,  gave  my  troubles  a  name — and  that  by  rob 
bing  them  of  mystery  has  made  them  commonplace. 
He  said  it  was  suppressed  gout.  It  has  a  fancy  of  grip- 
ping  me  in  the  stomach  sometimes,  holding  on  like  a 
slow  fire  for  seven  hours  at  a  time.  It  is  wonderful  how 
one  gets  used  to  things,  however.  But  it  seems  to  be 
growing  lighter,  and  I  hope  to  come  home  robust  and 
red.  .  .  . 

TO   LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Paris,  May  27,  1874. 

My  dear  Stephen,— I  can't  say  that  the  sight  of  your 
handwriting  again  was  good  for  sair  een,  for  the  force 
of  mine  is  so  far  abated  that  I  had  to  take  your  letter 
to  the  window — but  it  was  just  as  good  as  if  it  had 
been. 

I  had  thought  about  the  white-choker  business  and 
all  that,  and  from  your  point  of  view  I  liked  your  book 
altogether.  My  objection  was  a  purely  personal  one. 
I  shut  my  eyes  resolutely  (I  confess)  when  I  turn  them 
in  certain  directions,  and  trust  my  instincts  or  my  long 
ings  or  whatever  you  choose  to  call  them.  For  myself 
I  hate  to  see  religion  compounded  with  police  as  much 
as  you  do,  but  I  confess  that  my  intimacy  with  the 
French  makes  me  doubt,  makes  me  ready  to  welcome 
almost  anything  that  will  save  them  from  their  logic 
and  deliver  them  over,  bound  hand  and  foot,  to  any 
thing  that  will  give  them  a  continuity  that  looks  before 


128  LETTERS    OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1874 

and  after  with  as  great  a  respect  for  facts  as  for  syllo 
gisms.  .  .  . 

I  hope  whoever  stole  the  Atlantic  from  you  did  it  be 
cause  of  my  poem.  You  shall  have  another  copy  one 
of  these  days,  but  so  long  as  you  like  me,  you  are  wel 
come  to  think  what  you  must  of  what  I  write.  Besides, 
this  is  an  old  story  with  me  now.  It  should  have  some 
virtue  in  it,  to  judge  by  what  it  took  out  of  me. 

If  we  had  only  got  here  as  soon  as  I  expected  I 
should  have  met  you  in  Paris.  I  never  saw  my  habit 
of  taking  root  in  so  ill  a  light  before.  It  would  have 
been  so  jolly — for  I  know  all  the  old  nooks  and  corners 
so  well  now  that  I  should  have  been  an  admirable 
guide,  and  these  levels  suit  my  elderly  feet.  It  is  too 
bad,  but  our  weaknesses  always  come  home  to  roost  at 

last.  .  .  . 

Always  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO   THOMAS   HUGHES 

Elmwood,  July  n,  1874. 

Dear  Friend, —  .  .  .  We  had  a  foggy  and  rainy  pas 
sage,  but  the  north-westerly  and  south-easterly  winds 
that  made  it  disagreeable  made  it  also  short.  ...  At 
about  7  A.  M.  of  the  4th  we  landed,  and  by  half-past  nine 
I  was  at  home  again.  .  .  . 

This  has  been  a  rainy  summer,  so  I  found  everything 
as  green  as  in  the  noble  old  island  I  had  just  left.  The 
birds  have  pretty  much  given  over  singing,  but  my  im 
memorial  cat-bird  made  music  all  dinner-time  day  be 
fore  yesterday,  and  next  morning  in  the  early  dawn 


1874]  TO   MISS   GRACE  NORTON  I2Q 

the  Phoebe  was  calling  her  own  name  sadly,  like  one  of 
Ovid's  metamorphosed  ladies.  .  .  . 


TO   MISS   GRACE   NORTON 

Elmwood,  July  21,  1874. 

...  It  is  so  long  since  I  have  been  able  to  send  news 
from  Cambridge  that  I  find  a  certain  relish  in  it,  and 
begin  again  to  think  that  it  is  as  important  as  most 
other  domains  of  history.  Was  I  not  told  yesterday 
by  Mrs.  Mary  Mullins  that  "  Cambridge  had  seemed 
kind  o'  lonesome  without  me"?  and  shall  I  not  strive 
to  atone  to  her  (Cambridge  to  wit)  for  this  two  years' 
widowhood?  I  do  not  think,  however,  that  the  dear 
soul  missed  me  very  much,  nor  that  "  every  jow  "  the 
bell  of  the  First  Parish  gave  sounded  in  her  ear  "  Come 
back,  Russell  Lowell !"  These  returns  from  the  under 
world  would  be  good  medicine  for  one  inclined  to  value 
himself  over-duly.  Things  seem  to  have  got  on  very 
well  during  our  absence,  and  it  is  odds  if  nine  tenths 
of  our  fellow-citizens  missed  us  from  the  customed 
hill  any  more  than  they  would  if  we  had  authentically 
suffered  obituary.  I  have  sometimes  had  traitorous 
surmises  about  Alcestis,  as  if  she  might  have  surprised 
Admetus  seated  before  a  smoking  joint  of  one  of  those 
sheep  Apollo  once  tended  for  him,  and  inarticulate  for 
more  material  reasons  than  joy.  Our  returns,  whether 
quick  or  slow,  prove  to  us  that  we  are  small  prophets 
in  our  own  country.  I  except  All-of-you,  who  wel 
comed  me  better  than  I  deserved. 

I  do  not  find  so  many  changes  as  I  expected.  .  .  . 
II.-9 


130  LETTERS   OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1874 

TO   MISS  NORTON 

Elmwood,  Sept.  19,  1874. 

...  I  have  been  at  work,  and  really  hard  at  work, 
in  making  books  that  I  had  read  and  marked  really 
useful  by  indexes  of  all  peculiar  words  and  locutions. 
I  have  finished  in  this  way,  since  I  came  home,  Gold- 
ing's  "  Ovid,"  Warner's  "  Albion's  England,"  Laing's 
and  the  Thornton  "  Metrical  Romances,"  the  Chevalier 
au  lion ;  and  yesterday,  in  eight  unbroken  hours,  I  did 
Barbour's  "  Brus."  Then  I  have  been  reading  many 
volumes  of  the  Early  English  Text  Society's  series  in 
the  same  thorough  way.  A  professor,  you  know,  must 
be  learned,  if  he  can't  be  anything  else,  and  I  have  now 
reached  the  point  where  I  feel  sure  enough  of  myself 
in  Old  French  and  Old  English  to  make  my  correc 
tions  with  a  pen  instead  of  a  pencil  as  I  go  along.  Ten 
hours  a  day,  on  an  average,  I  have  been  at  it  for  the 
last  two  months,  and  get  so  absorbed  that  I  turn  grudg 
ingly  to  anything  else.  My  only  other  reading  has 
been  Mr.  Sibley's  book  of  "  Harvard  Graduates,"  which 
is  as  unillummed,  dry,  and  simple  as  the  fourteenth-cen 
tury  prose  of  the  Early  English  Texts.  But  it  inter 
ests  me  and  makes  me  laugh.  It  is  the  prettiest  rescue 
of  prey  from  Oblivion  I  ever  saw.  The  gallant  libra 
rian,  like  a  knight-errant,  slays  this  giant,  who  carries 
us  all  captive  sooner  or  later,  and  then  delivers  his 
prisoners.  There  are  ninety-seven  of  them  by  tale,  and 
as  he  fishes  them  out  of  those  dismal  oubliettes  they 
come  up  dripping  with  the  ooze  of  Lethe,  like  Curll 
from  his  dive  in  the  Thames,  like  him  also  gallant  com- 


1874]  TO   C.  E.  NORTON  131 

petitors  for  the  crown  of  Dulness.  It  is  the  very  balm 
of  authorship.  No  matter  how  far  you  may  be  gone 
under,  if  you  are  a  graduate  of  Harvard  College  you 
are  sure  of  being  dredged  up  again  and  handsomely 
buried,  with  a  catalogue  of  your  works  to  keep  you 
down.  I  do  not  know  when  the  provincialism  of  New 
England  has  been  thrust  upon  me  with  so  ineradicable 
a  barb.  Not  one  of  their  works  which  stands  in  any 
appreciable  relation  with  the  controlling  currents  of 
human  thought  or  history,  not  one  of  them  that  has 
now  the  smallest  interest  for  any  living  soul !  And  yet 
somehow  I  make  myself  a  picture  of  the  past  out  of 
this  arid  waste,  just  as  the  mirage  rises  out  of  the  dry 
desert.  Dear  old  Sibley !  I  would  read  even  a  sermon 
of  his  writing,  so  really  noble  and  beautiful  is  the  soul 
under  that  commonplace  hull ! 

Since  I  wrote  you  I  have  finished  an  autobiography. 
Do  not  be  frightened,  dear  Jane;  it  is  only  ten  lines 
long,  and  I  plagiarized  every  word  of  it  from  Drake's 
"  American  Biography,"  which  was  far  better  informed 
than  I  found  myself  to  be.  Last  night  was  our  first 
Whist  Club  since  my  return.  I  looked  in  the  record, 
found  it  was  John's  deal,  and  we  began  as  if  there  had 
been  no  gap.  The  club  is  now  in  its  thirtieth  year,  and 
I  was  saying  last  night  that  it  was,  I  thought,  both  a 
creditable  and  American  fact  that  I  had  never  heard  a 
dispute  or  even  a  difference  at  the  table  in  all  those 
years.  .  .  . 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON. 

Elmwood,  Oct.  7,  1874. 

My  dear  Charles, — The  nameless  author  of  that  de- 


132  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1874 

lightful  poem,  "  The  Squyr  of  Lowe  Degree  "  (may  God 
him  save  and  see !)  gives  a  list  of  every  bird  he  can 
think  of  that  sang  to  comfort  his  hero.  Here  they  are : 

1.  Lavrock, 

2.  Nightingale, 

3.  Pie, 

4.  Popinjay, 

5.  Throstil, 

6.  Marly n, 

7.  Wren, 

8.  Jay, 

9.  Sparrow, 

10.  Nuthatch, 

11.  Starling, 

12.  Goldfinch, 

13.  Ousel. 

On  Monday  the  5th  I  walked  up  to  the  Oaks  with  Still- 
man,  and  in  a  quarter  of  an  hour  had  noted  on  a  paper 
the  following  birds  (most  of  which  counted  by  dozens)  : 

1.  Robin, 

2.  Wilson's  thrush  (singing), 

3.  Chewink, 

4.  Bluebird  (warbling  as  in  spring), 

5.  Phcebe  (doing  his  best), 

6.  Ground  sparrow  (singing), 

7.  Tree  «        (      "      ), 

8.  Nuthatch, 

9.  Flicker  (laughing  and  crying  like  Andromache), 

10.  Chickadee  (doing  all  he  could), 

11.  Goldfinch, 


1874]  TO   E.  L.  GODKIN  133 

12.  Linnet, 


14.  Crow  (to  balance  his  popinjay), 

15.  Catbird. 

Thus  I  take  down  the  gauntlet  which  you  left  hang 
ing  for  all  comers  in  your  English  hedge.  I  don't  be 
lieve  that  hedge  birds  are  a  whit  more  respectable  than 
hedge  priests  or  hedge  schoolmasters.  All  the  while  we 
were  there  the  air  was  tinkling  with  one  or  other  of 
them.  Remember  —  this  was  in  October.  Three  cheers 
for  the  rivers  of  Damascus  ! 

Affectionately  always, 

HOSEA  BIGLOW. 

Et  ego  in  Arcadia,  says  Mr.  Wilbur. 

TO  E.  L.  GODKIN 

Elmwood,  Oct.  10,  1874. 

Dear  Godkin,  —  ...  I  see  they  are  driven  at  Wash 
ington  to  a  reform  of  the  office-holders  at  the  South. 
It  has  always  been  my  belief  that  if  tenure  of  office 
had  been  permanent,  secession  would  have  been  (if  not 
impossible)  vastly  more  difficult,  and  reconstruction 
more  easy  and  simple.  As  it  was,  a  large  body  of  the 
most  influential  men  in  the  discontented  States  knew 
that  the  election  of  Lincoln  would  be  fatal  to  their 
bread  and  butter  —  and,  after  all,  it  is  to  this  that  the 
mass  of  men  are  loyal.  It  is  well  that  they  should  be 
so,  for  habitual  comfort  is  the  main  fortress  of  conserv 
atism  and  respectability,  two  old-fashioned  qualities  for 
which  all  the  finest  sentiments  in  the  world  are  but  a 
windy  substitute.  .  .  . 


134  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1875 

By  the  way,  I  found  a  curious  misprint  in  the  new 
edition  of  Chapman  (vol.  ii.,  p.  159),  which  I  thought 
might  make  a  paragraph  for  the  Nation. 

"  Cati cusses 

That  cut  their  too  large  murtherous  thieveries 
To  their  den's  length  still." 

He  means  Cacus,  of  course,  though  the  editor  didn't 
see  it,  for  the  word  doesn't  occur  in  his  index  of  proper 
names.  It  is  a  curious  sors  castigatoris  preli,  at  any 
rate,  and  hits  true,  for  the  Caucus  always  cuts  down  its 
candidates  to  the  measure  of  its  robber's  cave.  It 
shows,  too,  that  old  Chapman  pronounced  a  au. 

And  by  this  graceful  transition  I  come  to  the  reason 
why  I  write  you  to-day  instead  of  in  some  indefinite 
future.  In  a  sonnet  printed  in  last  week's  Nation  there 
is  a  misprint  which  it  were  well  to  correct.  For  "  Noth 
ing  to  court"  lege  "  Nothing  to  count"  I  tried  to  think 
it  made  some  better  meaning  than  mine,  but  couldn't 
make  it  out.  Thank  the  Power  who  presides  over  the 
Nation  (who,  I  am  given  to  understand,  is  the  D — 1) 
that  I  am  of  calmer  temper  than  those  are  whom  a  mis 
print  drives  clean  daft — I  mean  one  in  their  own  con 
tribution  to  the  general  tedium  vita.  .  .  .  Goodby,  with 
gratitude  always  for  the  admirable  work  you  are  doing. 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO  THOMAS   HUGHES 

Elmwood,  Feb.  16,  1875. 

My  dear  Friend, —  ...  I  [have  been  reading]  Grote's 
"  Greece,"  which  I  had  never  read  before,  and  its  prosy 


1875]  TO   THOMAS    HUGHES  135 

good  sense  was  medicinal  to  me.  His  honest  incapacity 
of  imagination  is  singularly  soothing.  The  curious  po 
litical  (not  aesthetic)  analogies  struck  me  more  forcibly 
than  ever.  I  have  long  thought,  and  Grote's  book 
confirmed  me  in  it,  that  this  history  will  first  be  ade 
quately  written  by  a  Yankee.  Grote's  Dutch  blood 
helped  him  a  little,  but  the  moment  that  panhellenism 
(the  need  of  which  he  could  see  plainly  enough  two 
thousand  odd  years  ago)  showed  itself  in  a  million 
armed  men  over  here  under  his  very  nose,  he  fancied 
them  sprung  from  unblessed  dragon's  teeth, 

"  And  back  recoiled,  he  knew  not  why, 
E'en  at  the  sound  himself  had  made." 

The  sentimentalist  stood  revealed  under  the  imposing 
outside  of  the  banker.  It  is  humorously  sad  to  me. 

As  with  you  in  the  early  part  of  the  winter,  our  talk 
now  is  wholly  of  the  weather.  So  long  as  it  was  cold 
with  you  (a  fact  I  have  observed  before)  it  was  excep 
tionally  mild  here.  We  had  a  true  Indian  summer, 
and  I  heard  birds  singing  by  Beaver  Brook  in  Novem 
ber.  Being  much  of  an  hypaethral,  I  augured  ill  from 
it,  and  was  sure  that  Winter  was  waiting  only  to  get  a 
better  purchase  on  us.  About  Christmas  he  had  got 
everything  ready  in  his  laboratory  and  shut  upon  us 
with  the  snap  of  a  steel  trap.  Since  then  our  thermom 
eters  have  skulked  in  the  neighborhood  of  zero  (Fahr.). 
So  continuous  a  cold  has  brought  down  the  oldest  in 
habitant  to  the  wretched  level  of  us  juniors.  Out  of 
doors,  however,  it  has  been  noble  weather,  the  most  pi 
quant  sauce  for  my  walks  to  and  from  College — where, 


136  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1875 

by  the  way,  I  am  installed  again  with  a  class  in  Old 
French  and  another  in  Dante.  In  my  study  sometimes 
of  an  evening,  when  the  north-west  took  a  vigorous 
turn  at  the  bellows,  and  the  thermometer  in  the  back 
parts  could  not  be  coaxed  above  42°,  it  has  been  more 
than  invigorating.  But  I  have  not  given  in,  nor  once 
admitted  the  furnace,  unknown  to  my  youth  and  my 
progenitors.  I  always  was  a  natural  tory,  and  in  Eng 
land  (barring  Dizzy)  should  be  a  staunch  one.  I  would 
not  give  up  a  thing  that  had  roots  to  it,  though  it  might 
suck  up  its  food  from  graveyards.  Good-by.  God  bless 
you !  .  .  .  . 

TO   T.  S.  PERRY 

Elmwood,  March  2,  1875. 

My  dear  Perry, — I  don't  believe  I  ever  wrote  a  line 
for  the  Harvardiana  of  1836-37.  I  certainly  did  not 
write  the  poem  you  mention,  and  doubt  if  I  ever  saw 
it,  for  I  was  not  a  subscriber.  For  1837-38  I  was 
one  of  the  editors,  and  scribbled  some  wretched  stuff, 
which  I  hope  you  will  be  too  charitable  to  exhume.  I 
was  in  my  nineteenth  year,  but  younger  and  greener 
than  most  boys  are  at  that  age.  In  short,  I  was  as 
great  an  ass  as  ever  brayed  and  thought  it  singing. 

I  believe  our  volume  was  the  worst  of  the  lot,  for 
nobody  took  much  interest  in  it,  and  the  editing  was 
from  hand  to  mouth.  N.  Hale,  Jr.,  did  the  cleverest 
things  in  it,  as  indeed  he  was  perhaps  the  cleverest 
man  in  the  class. 

I  hope  to  see  you  before  long,  but  have  promised 
some  copy  for  the  North  American  Review  for  Wed- 


1875]  TO   W.  D.  HOWELLS  137 

nesday  and  shall  have  to  keep   abreast  of   the  press. 
Authorship  is  a  wretched  business,  after  all.  .  .  . 


TO   W.  D.  HOWELLS 

Elmwood,  March  21,  1875. 

Dear  Howells, — There  was  one  verse  in  the  "  Border  " 
sonnet  which,  when  I  came  to  copy  it,  worried  me 
with  its  lack  of  just  what  I  wanted.  Only  one?  you 
will  say.  Yes,  all ;  but  never  mind — this  one  most.  In 
stead  of  "  Where  the  shy  ballad  could  its  leaves  un 
fold,"  read  "dared  its  blooms."  I  had  liefer  "cup" 
— but  cup  is  already  metaphoric  when  applied  to  flow 
ers,  and  Bottom  the  Weaver  would  be  sure  to  ask  in 
one  of  the  many  journals  he  edits — "  How  unfold  a 
cup  ?  Does  he  mean  one  of  those  pocket  drinking- 
cups — leathern  inconveniencies  that  always  stick  when 
you  try  to  unfold  'em  ?"  Damn  Bottom  !  We  ought 
not  to  think  of  him,  but  then  the  Public  is  made  up 
of  him,  and  I  wish  him  to  know  that  I  was  thinking 
of  a  flower.  Besides,  the  sonnet  is,  more  than  any 
other  kind  of  verse,  a  deliberate  composition,  and 
"  susceptible  of  a  high  polish,"  as  the  dendrologists  say 
of  the  woods  of  certain  trees.  Or  shall  we  say  "  grew 
in  secret  bold "  ?  I  write  both  on  the  opposite  leaf, 
that  you  may  choose  one  to  paste  over  and  not  get 
the  credit  of  tinkering  my  rhymes. 

Yours  always, 

J.  R.  L. 

dared  its  blooms 
grew  in  secret  bold. 

Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  the  buzzing  of  that  b  in  blooms 


138  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1875 

and  bold,  answering  his  brother  b  in  ballads,  that 
b-witched  me,  and  merely  changing  "  could  "  to  "  dared  " 
is  all  that  is  wanted. 

The  sentiment  of  this  sonnet  pleases  me. 


TO   MRS. 


Elmwood,  June  3,  1875. 

.  .  .  An  author  who  was  not  pleased  with  the  friend 
ly  warmth  of  a  letter  like  yours  must  be  more  super 
human  than  I  can  pretend  to  be.  I  am  pleased,  and 
I  thank  you  very  cordially  for  this  proof  that  I  have 
been  of  some  use  in  the  world. 

Your  list  is  nearly  complete,  and  I  can  make  it  so 
as  to  the  names,  though  I  cannot  furnish  you  with  the 
books.  My  first  publication  was  a  small  volume  of 
poems  ("A  Year's  Life"),  printed  in  my  twenty-first 
year  and  long  out  of  print.  In  1844  I  printed  a  prose 
volume  of  "  Conversations  on  Some  of  Our  Old  Poets." 
They  were  mainly  written  three  years  before,  and  are 
now  also  these  many  years  out  of  print.  I  have  lately 
been  urged  to  reprint  them  and  possibly  may,  though 
they  are  naturally  somewhat  immature.  There  is  a 
second  series  of  "  Biglow  Papers"  (and  in  my  opinion 
the  best),  prefaced  by  an  essay  which,  I  think,  might 
interest  you.  In  the  North  American  Revieiv  (some 
time  in  1872,  I  believe)  I  printed  an  essay  on  Dante 
which  contained  the  results,  at  least,  of  assiduous  study. 
In  the  April  number  of  this  year  is  an  article  on  Spen 
ser.  These  would  be  in  the  library  of  the  Peabody 
Institute  probably.  In  the  "  Diamond  "  edition  of  my 
poems  there  are  a  few  verses  added  to  the  "  Cathedral " 


1875]  TO   MRS.  139 

— perhaps  some  others,  though  I  am  not  sure.  I  think 
your  list  is  otherwise  complete.  If  not,  I  shall  be 
obliged  to  you  if  you  will  allow  me  to  send  you  any 
that  may  be  lacking.  In  the  Atlantic  Monthly  for 
May,  1874,  is  an  "  Elegy  on  Agassiz  "  which,  I  suspect, 
is  among  my  best  verse.  In  the  Atlantic  for  August, 
1870,  is  an  introduction  by  me  to  some  "  Extracts  from 
the  Journal  of  a  Virginian  travelling  in  New  England." 
Towards  the  end  of  it  is  a  passage  the  sentiment  oi 
which  will  perhaps  please  you.  At  any  rate,  it  has 
always  been  my  own  way  of  thinking  on  that  point.  I 
was  roundly  abused  in  some  of  the  newspapers  at  the 
time,  but  I  am  happy  in  believing  that  the  whole  North 
is  now  come  round  to  where  I  then  stood. 

But  pardon  me,  I  am  getting  garrulous  without  the 
excuse  of  senility.  One  is  liable  to  these  pitfalls  when 
rapt  in  the  contemplation  of  that  precious  being,  who, 
in  proportion  as  he  interests  us,  is  apt  to  be  a  bore  to 
the  rest  of  mankind.  Be  so  good  as  to  let  me  know 
what  volumes  you  want,  and  they  shall  be  sent  to  your 
address.  .  .  . 

TO   THE   SAME 

Elmwood,  June  15,  1875. 

...  I  meant  that  so  important  a  package  as  that 
which  you  acknowledged  in  such  friendly  terms  should 
have  been  heralded  by  a  letter  in  answer  to  yours.  I 
meant  to  have  torn  out  all  the  prints  in  the  book 
(which  are  simply  disgusting — especially  that  of  Zekle 
and  Huldy),  but  I  forgot  it.  I  divine  in  your  note  of 
this  morning  a  certain  sensitiveness  about  its  unan- 


140  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1875 

swered  forerunner  (as  if  you  had  said  too  much)  which 
quite  justifies  me  in  the  pleasure  I  had  when  I  read  it. 
Mrs.  Lowell  liked  it  as  much  as  I  did.  I  am  quite  sure 
there  can  be  no  sweeter  and  kindlier  feeling  than  hav 
ing  been  something  to  somebody  in  this  purely  disem 
bodied  way.  Only  the  Somebody  must  be  of  the  right 
kind.  You  must  pardon  me  the  unseemly  confidence, 
but  I  receive  a  great  many  letters  from  women  (I  sup 
pose  all  poets  do),  and  hardly  ever  one  that  I  can  an 
swer.  They  are  commonly  like  those  of  Mrs.  Tilton, 
some  of  which  I  have  seen  in  the  newspapers,  a  kind 
of  stuff  that  makes  sensible  women  doubt  the  capacity 
of  their  sex  for  any  political  association  with  men.  I 
need  not  say  that  yours  was  of  quite  another  com 
plexion,  and  such  as  an  honest  man  could  be  heartily 
pleased  with.  So  far  from  tickling  my  vanity,  it  added 
to  my  self-distrust,  and  made  me  wonder  how  I  had  de 
served  so  grateful  a  congratulation.  It  did  me  real  good 
in  quickening  my  feeling  of  responsibility  to  myself, 
while  it  encouraged  me  to  think  that  I  had  sometimes 
cast  my  bread  upon  waters  which  did  not  steadily  ebb 
towards  oblivion. 

I  fear  the  volume  I  sent  you  will  try  your  eyes  sad 
ly,  but  it  is  the  most  complete  edition  of  what  I  have 
written  in  verse.  I  hope  you  will  permit  me  to  send 
you  also  my  two  volumes  of  prose,  to  which  a  third 
will  be  added  next  autumn.  The  article  on  Spenser 
has  been  wholly  rewritten  since  you  heard  it,  and  con 
tains  only  a  passage  or  two  here  and  there  which  were 
in  the  lecture. 

I  should  have  answered  your  letter  at  once,  but  I  am 


1875]  TO    MRS.    141 

really  a  very  busy  man,  and  (except  in  verse)  a  much 
slower  writer  than  when  I  was  younger.  It  is  harder 
to  weigh  anchor  than  it  used  to  be,  and  there  is  no 
Lapland  witch  to  sell  a  fair  wind  to  an  old  fellow  of 
fifty-six.  You  shall  let  me  count  you  for  one,  never 
theless,  for  I  felt  my  sails  strain  at  the  yards  in  the 
friendly  breath  of  your  sympathy. 

Expect  another  package  from  me  ere  long,  but  do 
not  feel  that  I  shall  be  forever  bombarding  you  with 
my  books.  I  doubt  if  I  shall  ever  lecture  in  Baltimore 
(or  anywhere  else  again) — for  I  like  it  not.  I  am  sure 
I  should  have  done  it  with  more  spirit  before,  had  I 
known  how  sympathetic  an  auditor  I  had.  .  .  . 


TO    THE   SAME 

Elm  wood,  July  6,  1875. 

.  .  .  My  having  been  very  busy  must  plead  my  par 
don  (for  I  assume  it  in  advance)  for  not  answering  your 
last  letter  sooner.  We,  too,  here  in  my  birthplace, 
having  found  out  that  something  happened  here  a  hun 
dred  years  ago,  must  have  our  centennial,  and,  since 
my  friend  and  townsman  Dr.  Holmes  couldn't  be  had, 
I  felt  bound  to  do  the  poetry  for  the  day.  We  have 
still  standing  the  elm  under  which  Washington  took 
command  of  the  American  (till  then  provincial)  army, 
and  under  which  also  Whitefield  had  preached  some 
thirty  years  before.  I  took  advantage  of  the  occasion 
to  hold  out  a  hand  of  kindly  reconciliation  to  Virginia. 
I  could  do  it  with  the  profounder  feeling,  that  no  fam 
ily  lost  more  than  mine  by  the  civil  war.  Three  neph- 


142  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1875 

ews  (the  hope  of  our  race)  were  killed  in  one  or  other 
of  the  Virginia  battles,  and  three  cousins  on  other  of 
those  bloody  fields.  The  poem  will  be  printed  in  the 
Atlantic  for  August,  and  will,  I  hope  and  believe,  do 
good. 

So  you  are  in  Alexandria,  a  town  of  which  I  have 
very  pleasant  memories,  now  fifty  years  old.  I  spent 
some  days  in  the  old  Carroll  house  there  with  the  Car- 
rolls,  who  are  connections  of  mine  by  marriage.  They 
are  all  gone,  but  I  hope  the  dear  old  house  is  still 
standing.  Pray  go  and  see  it  and  tell  me  if  the  river 
behind  it  be  as  pretty,  and  the  English  walnuts  in  front 
as  fine  as  I  remember.  The  house,  I  think,  must  be 
large,  for  (unless  it  loom  through  the  haze  of  memory) 
it  was  larger  than  that  in  which  I  was  born  and  still 
live,  and  that  is  not  a  small  one. 

I  suppose  it  must  have  been  the  extreme  solitude  in 
which  I  grew  up,  and  my  consequent  unconsciousness 
of  any  public,  that  made  me  so  frankly  communica 
tive.  Poets  get  their  sorrows  and  passions  out  of  them 
selves  by  carving  the  lava  (grown  cold)  into  pretty 
forms.  I  should  not  be  so  indiscreet  now,  I  suppose, 
and  yet  a  living  verse  can  only  be  made  of  a  living 
experience — and  that  our  own.  One  of  my  most  per 
sonal  poems,  "  After  the  Burial,"  has  roused  strange 
echoes  in  men  who  assured  me  they  were  generally  in 
sensible  to  poetry.  After  all,  the  only  stuff  a  solitary 
man  has  to  spin  is  himself. 

I  am  sorry  you  should  write  in  so  desponding  a  tone 
of  yourself.  Surely  at  your  age  life  (imposture  as  it 
often  is)  has  many  satisfactions  left.  Dame  Life,  to 


!875]  TO   JOHN    W.  FIELD  143 

be  sure,  keeps  a  gambling-table ;  but  even  if  we  have 
played  for  a  great  stake  and  lost,  we  must  recollect 
that  she  is  always  ready  to  lend  us  what  we  need  for 
another  chance.  Literature  and  work  are  the  exhaust- 
less  solamina  vitae,  and  if  you  find  so  much  pleasure 
in  what  I  have  done  (who  am  but  third-rate  compared 
with  the  masters)  you  have  yet  a  great  deal  to  enjoy. 

Do  not  let  your  friendly  enthusiasm  (a  very  great 
pleasure  to  me  personally)  lead  you  to  exaggerate  my 
merits,  or  overlook  my  defects.  I  think  more  might 
have  been  made  of  me  if  I  could  have  given  my  whole 
life  to  poetry,  for  it  is  an  art  as  well  as  a  gift,  but  you 
must  try  to  see  me  as  I  am. 

I  have  ordered  my  two  books  to  be  sent  to  your 
Alexandria  address,  and  enclose  two  slips  of  paper 
with  my  good  wishes  on  them  that  you  may  paste 
them  into  the  volumes  to  remind  you  whence  they 
came.  I  should  have  sent  them  sooner,  but  besides 
my  Centennial  task,  I  had  to  preside  over  our  Com 
mencement  dinner,  a  service  that  seems  simple  enough, 
but  which  worries  a  shy  man  like  myself  to  a  degree 
that  would  make  you  laugh.  .  .  . 


TO   JOHN  W.  FIELD 

Elmwood,  July  14,  1875. 

...  I  am  sitting  now  (with  Fanny  sewing  beside  me) 
on  our  new  veranda,  which  we  built  last  fall  on  the 
north  side  of  the  house,  and  find  inexpugnably  delight 
ful.  We  are  having  a  green  summer  this  year,  and  to 
day  is  rather  like  June  than  July,  with  a  sea-breeze  (you 


144-  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1875 

call  it  east  wind,  I  believe,  in  Europe)  winnowing  the 
heat  away,  and  trees  and  clouds  as  they  only  are  at 
home  where  they  are  old  friends.  The  catalpa  is  just 
coming  into  blossom  under  my  eyes,  and  the  chestnut 
hard  by  is  hoary  with  blossoms,  making  it  look  all  the 
younger,  like  powder  on  the  head  of  a  girl  of  eighteen. 
A  quail  is  calling  "  Bob  White  "  over  in  the  field,  but 
terflies  are  shimmering  over  Fanny's  flowers,  robins  are 
singing  with  all  their  might,  and  there  will  come  a  hum 
ming-bird  before  long.  I  see  the  masts  in  the  river 
and  the  spires  in  the  town,  and  whatever  noise  of  traffic 
comes  to  me  now  and  then  from  the  road  but  empha 
sizes  the  feeling  of  seclusion.  What  is  your  lake  of 
Geneva  to  this  ?  .  .  . 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Elmwood,  Aug.  3,  1875. 

...  It  is  now  thirty-seven  years  since  I  first  knew 
him  [Emerson],  and  he  showed  me  some  of  his  walks  in 
Concord,  especially,  I  remember,  "  the  Cliff."  And  Ed 
mund  Quincy  is  sixty-eight !  How  we  move  on,  with 
out  show  of  motion,  like  shadows  of  trees  in  the  sun  ! 
But  one's  horizon  widens,  thank  God  !  I  often  wonder 
over  this  unconscious  broadening  of  the  mind.  We  ab 
sorb  experience  at  all  our  pores  till  by  and  by  our  whole 
substance  is  changed  and  renewed.  But  in  order  to  be 
wise  we  must  be  able  to  enter  again  into  the  conscious 
ness  of  these  modes  of  being  we  have  sloughed  off. 

All  that  I  was  I  am,  and  all  the  more 

For  being  other  than  I  was  before  ; 

And  what  I  spent  is  still  my  best  of  store.  .  .  . 


1875]  TO   MRS.  145 


TO    MRS. 


Elm-.Trood,  Aug.  5,  1875. 

.  .  .  Your  letter  gave  me  a  great  deal  of  pleasure,  for 
surely  there  can  be  no  purer  satisfaction  than  that  of 
feeling  that  you  are  making  another  person  happier; 
and,  though  I  may  think  that  you  exaggerate  my  abso 
lute  merits,  yet  I  can  gratefully  accept  your  statement 
of  them  so  far  as  regards  yourself  without  abatement. 
It  is  something  to  be  that  to  somebody  which  in  the 
day  of  inexperience  one  dreamed  of  being  to  all.  It  is, 
I  assure  you,  a  great  encouragement  to  me,  and  of  the 
kind  that  suits  my  temper  best,  for  it  will  be  a  spur  in 
the  flank  of  my  endeavor  to  deserve  such  gratitude.  I 
have  always  had  a  profound  contempt  for  what  is  called 
Public  Opinion  (that  is,  the  judgment  of  the  incapable 
Many  as  compared  with  that  of  the  discerning  Few), 
and  a  rooted  dislike  of  notoriety,  which,  in  this  age  of 
newspapers,  is  our  German  -  silver  substitute  for  real 
plate,  and  "  in  all  respects  as  good  as  "  the  true  thing — 
except  that  it  isn't  the  true  thing.  But  I  am  not  insen 
sible  to  such  hearty  sympathy  as  yours,  and  at  fifty-six, 
after  a  life  honestly  devoted  to  what  I  conceived  the 
true  aims  of  literature,  I  may  confess  without  vanity 
that  it  is  very  sweet  to  encounter  a  reader  like  you. 
None  of  my  critics,  I  am  sure,  can  be  more  keenly 
aware  than  I  of  my  manifold  shortcomings,  but  I  think 
I  have  done  some  things  well,  and  I  was  pleased  to  find 
that  you  had  read  my  essay  on  Dryden  oftener  than 
any  other,  for  I  believe  it  to  be  my  best.  This  en 
couragement  of  yours  has  been  a  real  help  to  me,  for 
II.— 10 


146  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1875 

it  has  turned  the  scale  of  my  decision  not  to  be  con 
tent  with  a  critique  of  Wordsworth  written  twenty 
years  ago  (and  which  the  hot  weather  had  almost  per 
suaded  me  to  print  with  a  little  cobbling),  but  to  re 
write  it.  So,  if  I  make  anything  of  it,  I  shall  owe  it  to 
you  in  good  measure,  and  shall  feel  so  much  the  less  in 
your  debt — that  does  not  strike  you  as  inscrutable  par 
adox,  does  it  ? 

Let  me  counsel  you  to  read  a  little  German  every 
day,  and  you  will  be  surprised  to  find  how  soon  it  grows 
easy  to  you.  Insist  on  knowing  the  exact  meaning  of 
every  sentence,  and  use  your  grammar  for  that  only. 
In  this  way  you  will  insensibly  grow  familiar  with  the 
grammatical  construction.  I  think  a  great  deal  time  is 
'wasted  in  preliminary  studies  of  grammar.  Tumble 
into  deep  waters  at  once  if  you  would  learn  to  swim. 
German  is  the  open  sesame  to  a  large  culture,  for  it  is 
the  language  of  all  others  most  pliable  for  the  transla 
tion  of  other  tongues,  and  everything  has  been  rendered 
into  it. 

I  am  glad  you  have  mountains  to  look  out  upon. 
My  view  is  more  limited,  but  is  very  dear  to  me,  for  it 
is  what  my  eyes  first  looked  on,  and  I  trust  will  look  on 
last.  A  group  of  tall  pines  planted  by  my  father,  and 
my  lifelong  friends,  murmurs  to  [me]  as  I  write  with 
messages  out  of  the  past  and  mysterious  premonitions 
of  the  future.  My  wife's  flowers  recall  her  sweetly  to 
me  in  her  absence  from  home,  and  the  leaves  of  her 
morning-glories  that  shelter  the  veranda  where  I  sit 
whisper  of  her.  A  horse-chestnut,  of  which  I  planted 
the  seed  more  than  fifty  years  ago,  lifts  its  huge  stack 


1875]  TO   MRS.  147 

of  shade  before  me  and  loves  me  with  all  its  leaves.  I 
should  be  as  happy  as  a  humming-bird  were  I  not 
printing  another  volume  of  essays.  Everything  I  do 
seems  so  poor  to  me  when  I  see  it  in  print.  But  cour 
age  !  there  is  a  kindly  reader  in  Baltimore  who  will  find 
out  some  good  in  the  book  and  thank  me  for  it  more 
than  I  deserve. 

Not  what  we  did,  but  what  we  meant  to  do, 
Lay  in  your  scales,  just  Fates,  and  so  decide. 

Alas,  even  then  how  much  remains  to  rue ! 
How  little  for  our  solace  or  our  pride  ! 

They  frown  and  answer:  "Only  what  is  done 

We  make  account  of ;  dreams  may  not  be  weighed, 

Nor  with  their  down-shod  feet  the  race  is  run, 
And  reached  at  last  the  laurel's  sacred  shade." 

I  read  your  essay  on  the  weather  with  much  interest. 
Living  in  the  country  all  my  life,  I  am  a  good  weather- 
caster,  and  was  pleased  to  find  that  I  had  discovered 
by  my  own  observation  that  upper  current  you  speak 
of.  Thirty-four  years  ago,  when  you  were  a  little  girl,  I 
was  writing, 

"  Who  heeds  not  how  the  lower  gusts  are  working, 
Knowing  that  one  sure  wind  blows  on  above  " ; 

and  had  observed  that  its  current  was  from  north-west 
to  south-east,  though  I  did  not  know  why  till  you  told 
me.  .  .  . 

P.  S.  I  give  you  our  latest  weather-news.  A  fine 
thunder-storm  is  limbering  up  its  guns  in  the  south 
west. 


148  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1875 

TO   THE    SAME 

Elmwood,  Sept.  21, 1875. 

.  That  I  did  not  sooner  answer  your  letter,  was 
simply  because  for  the  last  six  weeks  I  have  been  rather 
unwell.  I  am  now  better,  and  surely  a  man  of  fifty-six 
who  had  never  taken  a  pill  till  now  has  no  great  reason 
to  repine.  .  .  . 

You  ask  me  if  I  am  an  Episcopalian.  No,  though  I 
prefer  the  service  of  the  Church  of  England,  and  at 
tend  it  from  time  to  time.  But  I  am  not  much  of  a 
church-goer,  because  I  so  seldom  find  any  preaching 
that  does  not  make  me  impatient  and  do  me  more 
harm  than  good.  I  confess  to  a  strong  lurch  towards 
Calvinism  (in  some  of  its  doctrines)  that  strengthens 
as  I  grow  older.  Perhaps  it  may  be  some  consolation 
to  you  that  my  mother  was  born  and  bred  an  Episco 
palian.  .  .  . 

My  essay  on  Wordsworth  has  been  interrupted  by  my 
illness,  which  in  some  way  confused  my  head  so  that  I 
could  not  get  on  with  it.  I  fear  the  essay  when  finished 
will  show  some  marks  of  it.  The  mere  physical  exer 
tion  of  writing  makes  me  impatient.  But  after  all, 
work  of  one  kind  or  another  is  the  only  tonic  for  mind 
or  character;  ...  it  makes  me  blush  to  think  how  de 
pendent  I  am  upon  moods  for  the  power  to  write  with 
any  hope  of  pleasing  myself.  I  am  just  enough  inde 
pendent  of  literature  as  a  profession  to  encourage  this 
nicety  (perhaps  I  should  call  it  weakness)  in  me.  Still 
I  have  the  satisfaction  of  thinking  that  I  have  often 
worked  hard  when  it  was  against  the  grain. 


1875]  T0    c-   E-   NORTON  149 

While  I  was  most  unwell,  I  could  not  find  any  read 
ing  that  would  seclude  me  from  myself  till  one  day  I 
bethought  me  of  Calderon.  I  took  down  a  volume  of 
his  plays,  and  in  half  an  hour  was  completely  absorbed. 
He  is  surely  one  of  the  most  marvellous  of  poets.  I 
have  recorded  my  debt  to  him  in  a  poem,  "  The  Night 
ingale  in  the  Study."  It  is  greater  now,  and  I  confess 
that  the  power  of  his  charm  interested  me  enough  to 
make  me  think  it  might  also  interest  you.  .  .  . 


TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Elmwood,  Sept.  23,  1875. 

.  .  .  For  about  a  week  I  could  read  nothing  but  Cal 
deron —  a  continual  delight,  like  walking  in  a  wood 
where  there  is  a  general  sameness  in  the  scenery  and 
yet  a  constant  vicissitude  of  light  and  shade,  an  endless 
variety  of  growth.  He  is  certainly  the  most  delightful 
of  poets.  Such  fertility,  such  a  gilding  of  the  surfaces 
of  things  with  fancy,  or  infusion  of  them  with  the  more 
potent  fires  of  imagination,  such  lightsomeness  of  hu 
mor  !  Even  his  tragedies  somehow  are  not  tragic  to 
me,  though  terrible  enough  sometimes,  for  everybody 
has  such  a  talent  for  being  consoled,  and  that  out  of 
hand.  Life  with  him  is  too  short  and  too  uncertain  for 
sorrow  to  last  longer  than  to  the  end  of  the  scene,  if 
so  long.  As  Ate  makes  her  exit  she  hands  her  torch 
to  Hymen,  who  dances  in  brandishing  it  with  an  lo ! 
The  passions  (some  of  the  most  unchristian  of  'em)  are 
made  religious  duties,  which  once  fulfilled,  you  begin 
life  anew  with  a  clear  conscience.  .  .  . 


150  LETTERS   OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1875 

TO  R.  S.  CHILTON 

Elmwood,  Oct.  16,  1875. 

Dear  Sir, — I  thought  I  had  answered  your  letter  long 
ago  as  I  ought,  for  I  was  much  obliged  to  you  for  your 
kind  remembrance  of  me  and  for  the  photograph.  But 
I  was  much  worried  during  the  spring  and  early  summer 
by  Centennials  and  things,  and  a  heap  of  letters  gath 
ered  ere  I  was  aware  under  my  bronze  hen,  till  she  looks 
as  if  [she  had]  been  laying  them  ever  since,  and  were 
now  brooding  on  them  with  a  fiendish  hope  of  hatching 
out  a  clutch  that  shall  hereafter  pair  and  multiply. 

I  am  glad  you  like  my  "  Great  Elm  "  poem.  Occa 
sional  verses  are  always  risky,  and  Centennials  most 
of  all,  as  being  expected  to  have  in  them  the  pith  and 
marrow  of  a  hundred  years.  Then,  too,  in  composing 
one  is  confronted  with  his  audience,  which  he  cannot 
help  measuring  by  the  dullest  of  his  fellow-citizens,  and 
this  is  far  from  inspiring.  However,  I  seem  to  have 
escaped  falling  flat  and  shaming  my  worshippers  — 
which  was  more  than  I  could  hope.  The  Concord 
poem  was  an  improvisation  written  in  the  two  days  be 
fore  the  celebration,  but  the  Cambridge  one  was  com 
posed  amid  all  kinds  of  alien  distractions. 

Do  you  remember  showing  me,  in  Page's  studio, 
more  than  thirty  years  ago,  a  pair  of  sleeve-buttons  of 
Burns's  ?  I  hope  you  have  them  still.  I  have  had  a 
kind  of  poem  about  them  buzzing  in  my  head  ever 
since.  It  is  better  there  than  it  would  be  if  I  could 
open  the  window  and  chase  it  out  of  doors.* 

*  One  of  these  sleeve-buttons  was  afterwards  given  to  Lowell ; 
it  is  now  in  the  Cabinet  of  the  Library  of  Harvard  University. 


1875]  TO   MRS.  151 

I  suppose  you  are  a  gray  old  boy  by  this  time.  I 
am  just  beginning  to  grizzle  with  the  first  hoar-frost. 
I  have  two  grandsons,  children  of  my  only  daughter 
and  surviving  child,  fine  boys  both  of  them.  They 
make  me  younger,  I  think. 

I  enclose  a  photograph  taken  two  years  ago  in  Rome 
by  an  amateur.  It  is,  I  believe,  a  tolerable  dead  like 
ness,  and  may  serve  to  recall  me  to  your  memory.  I 
am  printing  a  new  volume  of  essays,  my  work  on  which 
was  broken  off  by  an  illness,  the  first  (except  gout)  I 
ever  had.  But  I  am  now  for  a  few  days  mending  rap 
idly.  It  was  liver,  and  upset  me  utterly. 
With  all  kindly  remembrance, 

Cordially  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO  MRS.  - 

Elmwood,  Nov.  20,  1875. 

The  thought  of  your  so  long  unanswered  letter  has 
been  giving  my  conscience  an  unpleasant  twinge  for 
some  time,  but  I  anodyned  it  with  the  assurance  that 
you  would  be  too  kind  to  misinterpret  my  silence. 
The  truth  is  that  I  have  been  fussing  over  the  volume 
I  am  printing,  and  fussing,  too,  without  much  progress, 
for  my  wits  are  clogged  by  not  being  yet  quite  recov 
ered  from  my  late  illness.  But  I  hope  to  be  rid  of  my 
task  (after  a  fashion)  in  a  few  days  now.  The  book 
will  contain  essays  on  Dante,  Spenser,  Wordsworth,  and 
shorter  ones  on  Milton  (criticism  of  an  edition,  rather 
than  of  the  poet)  and  Keats. 

...  I  am  often  struck  with  the  fact  that  people  of  a 


152  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1875 

sceptical  turn,  and  who  look  upon  all  traditional  faiths 
as  broken  reeds,  are  sure  to  lay  hold  of  some  private 
bulrush  of  credulity  and  fancy  it  an  oak.  For  myself, 
I  look  upon  a  belief  as  none  the  worse  but  rather  the 
better  for  being  hereditary,  prizing  as  I  do  whatever 
helps  to  give  continuity  to  the  being  and  doing  of  man, 
and  an  accumulated  force  to  his  character. 

As  for  my  coming  to  Baltimore,  I  fear  it  is  out  of  the 
question,  at  least  for  the  present.  I  have  classes  at  the 
College  three  times  a  week  and  no  long  vacation  till 
summer.  At  Christmas  I  always  like  to  be  by  my  own 
fireside,  where  a  huge  Yule-log  always  blazes.  This 
year  I  shall  be  quite  patriarchal,  for  my  daughter  with 
her  husband  and  two  boys  will  be  with  us.  There  is 
something  wonderful  in  being  a  grandfather.  It  gives 
one  a  sense  of  almost  tenderer  paternity  without  the 
responsibilities  that  commonly  wait  upon  it.  ... 


TO    R.  W.    GILDER 

Eimwood,  Dec.  15,  1875. 

.  .  .  As  the  sight  of  you  four  young  lovers  under  my 
friend  Norton's  familiar  pines  transported  me  for  a  mo 
ment  to  a  more  innocent  garden  of  Boccaccio,  and  pret 
tily  renewed  for  me  my  own  youth  and  forward-looking 
days,  so  your  little  book  has  given  me  a  pleasure  the 
same  in  kind  though  more  poignant  in  degree.  I  can 
not  praise  it  better  than  in  saying  that  as  I  read  I  kept 
murmuring  to  myself,  "  It  dallies  with  the  innocence  of 
love  like  the  old  age."  Here  and  there  I  might  shake 
my  head  (gray  hairs,  you  know,  have  a  trick  of  setting 


1875]  TO.  MRS.   153 

our  heads  ashake),  but  nearly  all  I  liked  and  liked  thor 
oughly.  Your  book  is  too  subtle  for  the  many,  but  the 
sense  of  lovers  is  finer  and  they  will  find  it  out.  You 
will  be  the  harmless  Galeotto  between  many  a  dumb 
passion  and  itself. 

But  I  know  you  are  grumbling  to  yourself,  "  Why 
does  he  praise  my  verses  and  say  nothing  of  her  illus 
trations?"  I  could  not  help  liking  their  grace  and 
fancy.  They  seemed  to  me  like  flowers  a  lover  had 
given  his  mistress  and  begged  again,  after  she  had  worn 
them  in  her  stomacher  till  they  had  caught  some  en 
chantment  from  their  happy  destiny.  I  thank  you  both 
for  a  great  deal  of  pure  pleasure  that  will  last — as  only 
pure  pleasures  do. 

This  is  the  first  day  I  have  had  free  of  proof-sheets, 
or  I  should  have  written  sooner.  Cabbage-leaves  and 
rose-leaves  do  not  sort  well  together.  Recall  me,  I 
pray  you,  to  Mrs.  Gilder's  memory,  and  believe  me 

Very  thankfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO  MRS. 

Elmwood,  Dec.  25,  1875. 

...  I  am  reading  and  commenting  "  Don  Quixote  " 
to  the  students,  and  in  order  to  do  it  intelligently  have 
been  making  a  careful  study  of  it  over  again.  I  am  not 
sorry,  for  it  has  been  a  long  pleasure,  and  when  one  is 
obliged  to  read  with  a  microscope,  one  sees  many  things 
that  would  otherwise  escape  him.  It  is,  indeed,  a  won 
derful  book,  as  full  of  good  sense  and  good  feeling  as  of 
profound,  and  therefore  imperishable,  humor. 


154  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1876 

I  had  hoped  before  this  to  have  sent  you  my  new 
book,  but  it  hung  long  on  my  hands  and  is  not  yet  out. 
You  are  so  partial  (one  of  the  many  excellent  qualities 
in  your  sex)  that  I  dare  say  you  may  not  find  it  so 
tedious  as  it  has  been  to  me.  But  if  you  should  be 
bored  by  it,  I  shall  like  you  none  the  less. 

Your  industry  amazes  me,  who  am  rather  an  unwill 
ing  writer,  though  I  am  one  of  the  last  (I  fear)  of  the 
great  readers.  If  I  were  to  tell  how  many  hours  a  day 
I  have  studied,  nobody  would  believe  me  except  you. 
And  the  pitiful  part  of  it  is,  that  just  when  "we  are 
wise  enough  to  profit  by  our  accumulations  our  mem 
ory  grows  blurred,  like  the  pencil  entries  in  a  note-book 
carried  long  in  the  pocket. 

It  is  a  gloomy  Christmas  day.  Last  night  it  snowed 
nobly  for  an  hour  or  two  and  then  turned  to  rain,  and 
to-day  is  sullen  with  its  disappointment.  It  is  drizzling 
and  freezing  as  it  falls,  and  though  the  trees  will  look 
very  pretty  to-morrow  if  the  sun  shine,  I  never  quite 
like  it,  because  the  trees  always  suffer,  and  I  feel  for 
them  as  my  oldest  friends. 

I  had  expected  my  two  grandsons  to  dinner,  but  the 
weather  will  not  let  them  run  the  risk,  so  I  am  to  have 
my  old  friend  Mr.  John  Holmes  (the  best  and  most 
delightful  of  men),  and  a  student  whom  I  found  to 
be  without  any  chance  at  other  than  a  dinner  in  Com 
mons.  .  .  . 

TO   THE   SAME 

Elmwood,  Jan.  17,  1876. 
...  I  sent  you  day  before  yesterday  my  new  book, 


1876]  TO  JOEL    BENTON  155 

and  that  copy  was  the  first  I  sent  to  any  one,  for  I 
thought  your  partiality  would  perhaps  find  more  pleas 
ure  in  it  than  the  rest  of  the  world.  I  took  such  a  dis 
gust  at  it  while  it  was  passing  through  the  press  that 
I  have  not  ventured  to  look  into  it  since  it  was  pub 
lished.  Yet,  though  I  could  not  (muddle-headed  as  I 
was  all  summer  with  illness)  give  it  the  order  and  pro 
portion  that  I  would,  I  think  you  will  find  something 
in  it  to  like. 

I  go  on  in  my  usual  routine,  only  varied  by  reading 
and  commenting  "Don  Quixote"  on  Thursday  even 
ings.  An  audience  is  apt  to  set  me  at  cross-purposes 
with  myself,  but  I  am  told  that  I  give  pleasure.  .  .  . 

TO   JOEL   BENTON 

Elmwood,  Jan.  19,  1876.* 

Dear  Sir, — I  thank  you  for  the  manly  way  in  which 
you  put  yourself  at  my  side  when  I  had  fallen  among 

*  This  letter  was  printed,  with  a  Note  by  Mr.  Benton,  in  the 
Century  magazine  for  November,  1891.  The  following  is  a  por 
tion  of  Mr.  Benton's  Note  : 

"On  Mr.  Lowell's  return  from  Europe  in  1875  he  wrote  two 
brief  poems  for  the  Nation,  which  were  entitled  respectively 
'The  World's  Fair,  1876,'  and  'Tempora  Mutantur.'  In  these  he 
described  certain  dangerous  symptoms  of  the  body  politic.  .  .  . 
The  following  lines  are  a  fair  sample  of  the  tone  and  direction  of 
the  poems.  Mr.  Lowell,  speaking  for  Brother  Jonathan,  recom 
mends  the  exhibition  of  some  of  our  political  inventions  of  that 
day. 

"'  Show  'em  your  Civil  Service,  and  explain 
How  all  men's  loss  is  everybody's  gain ; 
Show  your  new  patent  to  increase  your  rents 
By  paying  quarters  for  collecting  cents ; 
Show  your  short  cut  to  cure  financial  ills 
By  making  paper-collars  current  bills ; 
Show  your  new  bleaching-process,  cheap  and  brief, 
To  wit :  a  jury  chosen  by  the  thief ; 


156  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1876 

thieves,  still  more  for  the  pithy  and  well-considered 
words  with  which  you  confirm  and  maintain  my  side  of 
the  quarrel.  At  my  time  of  life  one  is  not  apt  to  vex 

Show  your  State  legislatures ;  show  your  Rings ; 
And  challenge  Europe  to  produce  such  things 
As  high  officials  sitting  half  in  sight 
To  share  the  plunder  and  to  fix  things  right ; 
If  that  don't  fetch  her,  why,  you  only  need 
To  show  your  latest  style  in  martyrs — Tweed  : 
She'll  find  it  hard  to  hide  her  spiteful  tears 
At  such  advance  in  one  poor  hundred  years.' 

"  In  '  Tempora  Mutantur '  occur  these  lines  : 

"  '  A  hundred  years  ago, 

If  men  were  knaves,  why,  people  called  them  so, 
And  crime  could  see  the  prison-portal  bend 
Its  brow  severe  at  no  long  vista's  end  ; 
In  those  days  for  plain  things  plain  words  would  serve ; 
Men  had  not  learned  to  admire  the  graceful  swerve 
Wherewith  the  ^Esthetic  Nature's  genial  mood 
Makes  public  duty  slope  to  private  good. 

But  now  that  "  Statesmanship  "  is  just  a  way 
To  dodge  the  primal  curse  and  make  it  pay, 
Since  Office  means  a  kind  of  patent  drill 
To  force  an  entrance  to  the  Nation's  till, 
And  peculation  something  rather  less 
Risky  than  if  you  spelt  it  with  an  s / 
i  ...... 

With  generous  curve  we  draw  the  moral  line  : 
Our  swindlers  are  permitted  to  resign; 
Their  guilt  is  wrapped  in  deferential  names, 
And  twenty  sympathize  for  one  that  blames. 

The  public  servant  who  has  stolen  or  lied, 
If  called  on,  may  resign  with  honest  pride: 
As  unjust  favor  put  him  in,  why  doubt 
Disfavor  as  unjust  has  turned  him  out? 
Even  if  indicted,  what  is  that  but  fudge 
To  him  who  counted-in  the  elective  judge  ? 
Whitewashed,  he  quits  the  politician's  strife, 
At  ease  in  mind,  with  pockets  filled  for  life.' 

"These  caustic  lines  awakened  resentment.     A  large  propor 
tion  of  the  press  (and  particularly  that  part  of  it  which  was  of  his 


1876]  TO   JOEL    BENTON  157 

his  soul  at  any  criticism,  but  I  confess  that  in  this  case 
I  was  more  than  annoyed,  I  was  even  saddened.  For 
what  was  said  was  so  childish  and  showed  such  shal- 
lowness,  such  levity,  and  such  dulness  of  apprehension 
both  in  politics  and  morals  on  the  part  of  those  who 
claim  to  direct  public  opinion  (as,  alas !  they  too  often 
do)  as  to  confirm  me  in  my  gravest  apprehensions.  I 
believe  "The  World's  Fair"  gave  the  greatest  offence. 
They  had  not  even  the  wit  to  see  that  I  put  my  sar 
casm  into  the  mouth  of  Brother  Jonathan,  thereby  im 
plying  and  meaning  to  imply  that  the  common-sense  of 
my  countrymen  was  awakening  to  the  facts,  and  that 
therefore  things  were  perhaps  not  so  desperate  as  they 
seemed. 

I  had  just  come  home  from  a  two  years'  stay  in 
Europe,  so  it  was  discovered  that  I  had  been  corrupted 
by  association  with  foreign  aristocracies !  I  need  not 
say  to  you  that  the  society  I  frequented  in  Europe  was 
what  it  is  at  home — that  of  my  wife,  my  studies,  and 
the  best  nature  and  art  within  my  reach.  But  I  confess 
that  I  was  embittered  by  my  experience.  Wherever  I 


own  political  faith)  pursued  him  with  no  polite  epithets,  and  with 
not  a  little  persistence.  It  was  charged  that  he  was  no  true 
American  ;  that  he  was,  in  fact,  a  snob ;  that  he  had  elbowed 
against  dukes  and  lords  so  much  and  so  long  that  he  could  not 
any  longer  tolerate  Democracy.  And  for  many  weeks  this  and 
other  equally  puerile  nonsense  went  on  unrebuked. 

"  It  occurred  to  me  at  last  to  say  what  was  obvious,  and  record 
my  sympathy  with  Mr.  Lowell's  position.  That  his  character  and 
motives  were  above  all  need  of  defence  I  knew,  but  such  a  shock 
ing  perversion  of  his  ideas  and  intentions  was  altogether  too  fla 
grant  to  pass  unnoticed.  I  therefore  took  up  the  cudgels  for  what 
seemed  to  me  to  be  true  ;  and,  under  the  title  of  '  Mr.  Lowell's 
Recent  Political  Verse,'  volunteered,  in  the  Christian  Union  of 
December  15,  1875,  a  defence  of  his  friendly  chidings." 


158  LETTERS   OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1876 

went  I  was  put  on  the  defensive.  Whatever  extracts 
I  saw  from  American  papers  told  of  some  new  fraud 
or  defalcation,  public  or  private.  It  was  sixteen  years 
since  my  last  visit  abroad,  and  I  found  a  very  striking 
change  in  the  feeling  towards  America  and  Americans. 
An  Englishman  was  everywhere  treated  with  a  certain 
deference :  Americans  were  at  best  tolerated.  The  ex 
ample  of  America  was  everywhere  urged  in  France  as  an 
argument  against  republican  forms  of  government.  It 
was  fruitless  to  say  that  the  people  were  still  sound  when 
the  Body  Politic  which  draws  its  life  from  them  showed 
such  blotches  and  sores.  Q-^ameJhome,  and  instead  of 
wrath  at  such  abominations,  I  found  banter.  I  was  pro 
foundly  shocked,  for  I  had  received  my  earliest  impres 
sions  in  a  community  the  most  virtuous,  I  believe,  that 
ever  existed.  .  .  .  On  my  return  I  found  that  commu 
nity  struggling  half  hopelessly  to  prevent  General  Butler 
from  being  put  in  its  highest  office  against  the  will  of  all 
its  best  citizens.  I  found  Boutwell,  one  of  its  sena 
tors,  a  chief  obstacle  to  Civil-Service  reform  (our  main 
hope).  ...  I  saw  Banks  returned  by  a  larger  majority 
than  any  other  member  of  the  lower  house.  ...  In  the 
Commonwealth  that  built  the  first  free  school  and  the 
first  college,  I  heard  culture  openly  derided.  I  suppose 
I  like  to  be  liked  as  well  as  other  men.  Certainly  I 
would  rather  be  left  to  my  studies  than  meddle  with 
politics.  But  I  had  attained  to  some  consideration,  and 
my  duty  was  plain.  I  wrote  what  I  did  in  the  plainest 
way,  that  he  who  ran  might  read,  and  that  I  hit  the 
mark  I  aimed  at  is  proved  by  the  attacks  against  which 
you  so  generously  defend  rne.  These  fellows  have  no 


1876]  TO   JOEL    BENTON  159 

notion  what  love  of  country  means.  It  is  in  my  very 
blood  and  bones.  If  I  am  not  an  American,  who  ever 
was? 

I  am  no  pessimist,  nor  ever  was,  .  .  .  but  is  not  the 
Beecher  horror  disheartening?  Is  not  Delano  discour 
aging?  and  Babcock  atop  of  him?  .  .  .  What  fills  me 
with  doubt  and  dismay  is  the  degradation  of  the  moral 
tone.  Is  it  or  is  it  not  a  result  of  Democracy?  Is  ours 
a  "  government  of  the  people  by  the  people  for  the 
people,"  or  a  Kakistocracy  rather,  for  the  benefit  of 
knaves  at  the  cost  of  fools?  Democracy  is,  after  all, 
nothing  more  than  an  experiment  like  another,  and  I 
know  only  one  way  of  judging  it — by  its  results.  De 
mocracy  in  itself  is  no  more  sacred  than  monarchy.  It 
is  Man  who  is  sacred ;  it  is  his  duties  and  opportunities, 
not  his  rights,  that  nowadays  need  reinforcement.  It 
is  honor,  justice,  culture,  that  make  liberty  invaluable, 
else  worse  than  worthless  if  it  mean  only  freedom  to  be 
base  and  brutal.  As  things  have  been  going  lately,  it 
would  surprise  no  one  if  the  officers  who  had  Tweed  in 
charge  should  demand  a  reward  for  their  connivance  in 
the  evasion  of  that  popular  hero.  I  am  old  enough  to 
remember  many  things,  and  what  I  remember  I  medi 
tate  upon.  My  opinions  do  not  live  from  hand  to 
mouth.  And  so  long  as  I  live  I  will  be  no  writer  of 
birthday  odes  to  King  Demos  any  more  than  I  would 
be  to  King  Log,  nor  shall  I  think  our  cant  any  more 
sacred  than  any  other.  Let  us  all  work  together  (and 
the  task  will  need  us  all)  to  make  Democracy  possible. 
It  certainly  is  no  invention  to  go  of  itself  any  more  than 
the  perpetual  motion. 


160  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1876 

Forgive  me  for  this  long  letter  of  justification,  which 
I  am  willing  to  write  for  your  friendly  eye,  though  I 
should  scorn  to  make  any  public  defence.  Let  the  tenor 
of  my  life  and  writings  defend  me. 

Cordially  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   EDWARD   P.   BLISS 

Elmwood,  April  4,  1876. 

Dear  Sir, — Though  I  don't  think  the  function  you 
wish  me  to  perform  quite  in  my  line,  I  am  willing  to 
do  anything  which  may  be  thought  helpful  in  a  move 
ment  of  which  I  heartily  approve.  I  am  not  so  hope 
ful,  I  confess,  as  I  was  thirty  years  ago  ;  yet,  if  there 
be  any  hope,  it  is  in  getting  independent  thinkers  to 
be  independent  voters. 

Very  truly  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL.* 

*  Mr.  Bliss  has  favored  me  with  the  following  statement,  ex 
planatory  of  the  preceding  letter:  "In  the  spring  of  1876  some 
young  men  in  Cambridge  were  not  contented  with  the  tenden 
cies  in  the  Republican  party.  We  had  a  meeting  in  one  of  the 
rooms  in  Stoughton  Hall,  and  planned  to  call  a  larger  meeting, 
inviting  about  sixty  citizens,  at  which  we  could  better  determine 
how  to  help  right  our  politics.  I  was  directed  to  invite  Professor 
Lowell  to  preside  at  the  proposed  meeting.  I  received  from  him 
the  foregoing  letter. 

"  At  this  meeting  Mr.  Lowell  advised  with  us  very  seriously, 
and  the  result  was  that  we  organized  a  committee  of  forty,  eight 
from  each  ward,  to  see  that  we  had  fair  caucuses.  At  that  time 
the  Boston  Custom-House  officials  were  used  to  managing  all 
our  caucuses,  and  just  then  they  wanted  to  secure  delegates 
favorable  to  Mr.  Elaine's  nomination.  Mr.  Lowell  was  elected 
president  of  the  whole  committee.  The  caucuses  in  all  wards 
were  so  well  looked  after  by  these  amateurs  in  politics  that  anti- 
Blaine  delegates  were  chosen,  to  the  surprise  of  the  Custom- 
House  men.  At  Jamaica  Plains  there  was  a  similar  committee. 
We  were  in  the  same  district  then.  Members  of  their  commit 
tee  arranged  with  some  of  us  that  at  the  district  convention  we 


1876]  TO    LESLIE    STEPHEN  l6l 

TO   LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Elm  wood,  April  10,  1876. 

.  .  .  Last  night  I  appeared  in  a  new  capacity  as 
chairman  of  a  political  meeting,  where  I  fear  I  made 
an  ass  of  myself.  It  was  got  up  by  young  men  who 
wish  to  rouse  people  to  their  duty  in  attending  cau 
cuses  and  getting  them  out  of  the  hands  of  profes 
sionals.  I  haven't  much  hope  (one  has  rounded  that 
cape  by  the  time  he  is  fifty),  but  am  willing  to  try 
anything.  We  have  got  to  work  back  from  a  democ 
racy  to  our  original  institution  as  a  republic  again. 
Our  present  system  has  resulted  in  our  being  governed 
by  a  secret  and  irresponsible  club  called  the  United 
States  Seriate  for  their  own  private  benefit.  Our  Re 
publican  newspapers  seem  to  find  a  strange  consolation 
in  the  vile  character  of  the  witnesses  against  our  more 
illustrious  swindlers ;  but  how  are  we  to  get  over  the 
fact  that,  however  rotten  and  perjured  these  rascals 
may  be,  they  were  all  in  the  confidential  employment  of 
the  very  men  who  try  to  discredit  them  ?  I  think  the 
row  is  likely  to  do  good,  however,  in  getting  us  better 
candidates  in  the  next  presidential  election,  and  wak 
ing  everybody  up  to  the  screaming  necessity  of  reform 
in  our  Civil  Service.  It  doesn't  cheer  me  much  to  be 
told  that  it  was  just  as  bad  in  England  under  Sir  Rob 
ert  Walpole.  In  the  first  place,  it  wasn't,  and,  in  the 
second,  suppose  it  was  ?  .  .  . 

would  try  to  send  as  delegates  to  Cincinnati  the  presidents  of  the 
two  committees,  who  were  the  Rev.  Dr.  James  F.  Clarke  and  Pro 
fessor  J.  R.  Lowell.  We  were  successful.  Mr.  Lowell  was  a  new 
personage  in  active  politics,  and  as  delegate  and  afterwards  pres 
idential  elector  drew  special  attention." 

II.— IT 


l62  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1876 

TO   MRS.  

Elm  wood,  April  19,  1876. 

.  .  .  But  I  did  not  tell  you  the  worst.  Horace 
confesses  that  he  was  stout,  or  at  any  rate  implies  it. 
Thomson  says  plumply  that  he  was  fat — an  odious 
word.  I  suppose  Coleridge  would  have  admitted  a  cer 
tain  amiable  rotundity  of  presence.  Byron  wrestled 
with  increasing  flesh,  as  it  had  been  well  for  him  to  do 
against  growing  fleshliness.  But  such  is  the  weakness 
of  our  poor  human  nature  that  never  one  of  them  could 
bring  himself  to  the  shameful  confession  that  he  had 
lost  his  waist.  There  is  the  tender  spot,  and  I  claim 
a  certain  amount  of  admiration  when  I  admit  that  mine 
has  been  growing  more  and  more  obscure  (like  many 
a  passage  in  Browning)  for  several  years.  Now,  a  waist 
is  as  important  in  a  poet's  economy  as  in  a  woman's. 
But  this  is  too  sad  a  topic.  You  see  I  disenchant  you 
by  installments — and,  how  shall  I  say  it  ?  I  am  writing 
at  this  moment  with  spectacles  (not  nippers,  mind  you, 
but  the  steel-bowed  deformity  which  pale  young  par 
sons  love)  across  my  prosaic  nose.  It  is  horrible,  but 
it  is  true.  I  have,  to  be  sure,  the  saving  grace  of  being 
still  a  little  touchy  about  them,  and  have  never  yet  al 
lowed  any  of  the  servants  to  see  me  in  my  debasement. 
Nippers  have  still  a  pretension  of  foppishness  about 
them,  and  he  who  is  foppish  has  not  yet  abandoned 
the  last  stronghold  of  youth,  or,  if  he  has,  he  at  least 
marches  out  with  the  honors  of  war.  I  have  laid  down 
my  arms.  That  steel  bow  is  Romance's  Caudine  Forks. 
I  used  to  have  the  eye  of  a  hawk,  and  a  few  days  ago 


1876]  TO   MRS.  163 

I  mistook  a  flight  of  snow-birds  for  English  sparrows ! 
Have  you  still  the  courage  to  come  ?  If  you  have,  we 
shall  be  all  the  gladder  to  see  you,  and  I  will  make 
you  welcome  to  whatever  I  have  contrived  to  save 
from  the  wreck  of  myself.  Age  makes  Robinson  Cru- 
soes  of  the  best  of  us,  and  makes  us  ingenious  in  con 
trivances  and  substitutes,  but  what  cunning  expedient 
will  ever  replace  youth  ?  In  one  respect  only  I  have 
lost  nothing.  I  think  I  am  as  great  a  fool  as  ever,  and 
that  is  no  small  comfort.  I  believe,  too,  that  I  still  feel 
the  blind  motions  of  spring  in  my  veins  with  the  same 
sense  of  prickle  as  trees  do,  for  I  suppose  their  sense  of 
April  must  be  very  much  like  ours  when  a  limb  that 
has  been  asleep,  as  we  call  it,  is  fumbling  after  its  sus 
pended  sensation  again. 

Are  you  a  stout  walker?  If  you  are,  I  will  show  you 
my  oaks  while  you  are  here.  If  you  are  not,  I  will  still 
contrive  to  make  you  acquainted  with  them  in  some 
more  ignominious  way.  They  will  forgive  you,  I  dare 
say,  for  the  sake  of  so  old  a  friend  as  I.  Besides,  they 
are  no  great  pedestrians  themselves  unless,  like  Shel 
ley's  Appenine,  they  walk  abroad  in  the  storm.  We 
haven't  much  to  show  here.  We  are  a  flat  country, 
you  know,  but  not  without  our  charm,  and  I  love 
Nature,  I  confess,  not  to  be  always  on  her  high  horse 
and  with  her  tragic  mask  on.  Bostonians  generally  (I 
am  not  a  Bostonian)  seem  to  have  two  notions  of  hos 
pitality — a  dinner  with  people  you  never  saw  before 
nor  ever  wish  to  see  again,  and  a  drive  in  Mount  Au 
burn  cemetery,  where  you  will  see  the  worst  man  can 
do  in  the  way  of  disfiguring  nature.  Your  memory  of 


164  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1876 

the  dinner  is  expected  to  reconcile  you  to  the  prospect 
of  the  graveyard.     But  I  am  getting  treasonable. 

Now  to  business.  You  must  let  me  know  in  good 
season  when  you  are  coming,  because  I  wish  to  make 
sure  of  some  pleasant  people  for  you  to  meet.  Don't 
come  till  May,  if  you  can  help  it,  for  our  spring  is 
backward  and  we  don't  do  ourselves  justice  yet.  But 
come  at  any  rate.  .  .  . 

TO   H.  W.  LONGFELLOW 

Elmwood,  May  3,  1876. 

Dear  Longfellow, — Will  you  dine  with  me  on  Sat 
urday  at  six?  I  have  a  Baltimore  friend  coming,  and 
depend  on  you. 

I  had  such  a  pleasure  yesterday  that  I  should  like 
to  share  it  with  you  to  whom  I  owed  it.  J.  R.  Osgood  & 
Co.  sent  me  a  copy  of  your  Household  Edition  to  show 
me  what  it  was,  as  they  propose  one  of  me.  I  had 
been  reading  over  with  dismay  my  own  poems  to  weed 
out  the  misprints,  and  was  awfully  disheartened  to  find 
how  bad  they  (the  poems)  were.  Then  I  took  up  your 
book  to  see  what  the  type  was,  and  before  I  knew  it  I 
had  been  reading  two  hours  and  more.  I  never  won 
dered  at  your  popularity,  nor  thought  it  wicked  in  you  ; 
but  if  I  had  wondered,  I  should  no  longer,  for  you  sang 
me  out  of  all  my  worries.  To  be  sure  they  came  back 
when  I  opened  my  own  book  again — but  that  was  no 
fault  of  yours. 

If  not  Saturday,  will  you   say  Sunday?    My  friend 

is  a  Mrs. ,  and  a  very  nice  person  indeed. 

Yours  always, 

J.  R.  L. 


1876]  TO    LESLIE   STEPHEN  165 

TO   LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Elmwood,  May  15,  1876. 

.  .  .  Have  I  read  your  book?*  I  wish  you  had  read 
it  so  carefully,  for  then  I  should  not  have  a  string  of 
errata  to  send  you  for  your  next  edition,  the  first  of 
them  peculiarly  exasperating,  because  it  spoils  one  of 
Browne's  most  imaginative  passages,  a  passage  I  never 
think  of  without  a  thrill.  It  is  on  page  40,  where 
"dreams"  has  usurped  the  place  of  "drums."  ...  I 
may  be  partial,  though  I  don't  think  I  am,  and  even 
were  I,  towards  whom  have  I  a  better  privilege  of  par 
tiality  than  towards  you  ?  To  be  sure,  I  could  not  help 
being  constantly  reminded  of  you  as  I  read ;  but  that 
surely  is  a  chief  merit  of  the  book,  proving  it  to  be  dis 
tinctively  yours  and  nobody's  else.  I  was  especially 
interested  in  Jonathan  Edwards,  with  whom  (except  in 
his  physical  notions  of  hell)  I  have  a  great  sympathy 
— a  case  of  reversion,  I  suppose,  to  some  Puritan  an 
cestor.  If  he  had  only  conceived  of  damnation  as  a 
spiritual  state,  the  very  horror  of  which  consists  (to  our 
deeper  apprehension)  in  its  being  delightful  to  who  is 
in  it,  I  could  go  along  with  him  altogether.  What  you 
say  of  his  isolation  is  particularly  good,  and  applies  to 
American  literature  more  or  less  even  yet.  We  lack 
the  stimulus  whether  of  rivalry  or  sympathy.  I  liked 
your  estimate  of  Browne  very  much.  It  is  very  subtle 
and  appreciative,  though  I  think  you  misapprehend  the 
scope  of  the  "  Pseudodoxia  "  a  little.  Browne  was  Mon 
taigne's  truest  disciple,  and  his  deference  to  certain 

*  "  Hours  in  a  Library." 


l66  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1876 

superstitions  is  greatly  analogous  to  old  Michel's  pil 
grimage  to  Loreto.  He  always  assumes  the  air  of  a 
believer  the  more  devoutly  >vhen  he  is  about  to  hint 
something  especially  unorthodox.  Always  sceptical,  he 
makes  us  feel  the  absurdities  of  the  vulgar  faith  by  set 
ting  forth  some  monstrous  deduction  that  may  be  drawn 
from  them.  Take  the  passage  you  quote  from  the  "  Re- 
ligio,"  on  pages  23-24,  for  example.  In  the  "  Pseudo- 
doxia  "  Browne  is  always  scattering  (as  it  seems  to  me) 
the  seeds  of  scepticism,  though  the  bags  that  contain 
them  are  all  carefully  labelled  "  Herb  of  Grace."  But 
I  may  be  wrong,  for  I  speak  from  a  long-agone  general 
impression,  not  having  studied  Browne  much  for  a  good 
many  years.  I  was  glad  of  your  kind  word  for  good 
old  Crabbe,  which  was  very  just  and  discriminating.  I 
thank  you  also  for  your  Rettung  (as  Lessing  would 
have  called  it)  of  Horace  Walpole.  The  "  Hazlitt,"  too, 
though  you  rate  him  higher  than  I  should,  strikes  me 
as  very  good.  In  the  whole  book  there  is  a  union  of 
impartial  good  sense  and  sensibility  of  appreciation 
that  is  very  rare  in  criticism.  And  then  there  are 
charity  and  modesty.  I  read  it  straight  through  at  a 
sitting  and  wished  there  had  been  more,  and  not  be 
cause  it  was  yours,  but  because  I  was  interested.  But 
because  it  was  yours,  I  am  heartily  glad  it  is  so  good. 
I  am  impatient  for  your  other  book.*  It  is  on  a 
capital  subject  and  I  am  sure  it  will  be  ably  han 
dled. 

I  have  published  another  volume,  and  I  ought  long 

*  "  English  Thought  in  the  Eighteenth  Century." 


1876]  TO    LESLIE    STEPHEN  1 67 

ago  to  have  sent  you  a  copy,  but  I  took  a  disgust  at 
it  so  soon  as  I  saw  it  in  print.  I  was  really  ill  all  the 
time  it  was  going  through  the  press,  so  that  I  some 
times  could  not  even  read  a  proof  for  weeks,  and  had 
to  put  in  at  random  some  things  I  would  rather  have 
left  for  a  posthumous  edition  of  my  works  (if  I  ever 
have  one),  when  people  read  with  kindlier  eyes.  But  I 
will  post  you  a  copy  soon. 

Thank  you  for  the  plan.*  I  shall  be  able  to  fancy 
you  now  very  well  in  your  new  house,  for  I  remember 
all  that  neighborhood  well,  and  it  is  already  associated 
with  you,  since  I  used  to  pass  it  in  my  way  to  South 
well  Gardens.  I  am  glad  to  think  that  little  Laura  will 
be  so  near  a  good  playground  and  something  like  the 
country.  I  fear  you  will  not  have  a  study  I  shall  like 
so  well  as  that  Stylites  one  on  the  top  of  your  other 
house,  which  I  know  so  thoroughly.  It  was  the  one 
place  in  the  wilderness  of  London  where  I  felt  thor 
oughly  at  home.  I  was  somehow  an  American  every 
where  else,  but  there  I  was  a  friend,  and  so  far,  you 
know,  it  was  a  foretaste  of  heaven. 

I  didn't  mean  any  reproach  (but  then  you  wouldn't 
have  thought  I  did)  in  what  I  said  about  Providence, 
whatever  it  was.  I  don't  meddle  with  what  my  friends 
believe  or  reject,  any  more  than  I  ask  whether  they 
are  rich  or  poor.  I  love  them.  I  sometimes  think 
they  will  smile  (as  Dante  makes  St.  Gregory)  when 
they  open  their  eyes  in  the  other  world.  And  so 
doubtless  shall  I,  for  I  have  no  Murray  or  Baedeker 

*  Of  Mr.  Stephen's  new  house,  for  which  Lowell  had  asked. 


1 68  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1876 

for  those  parts.  I  don't  think  a  view  of  the  universe 
from  the  stocks  of  any  creed  a  very  satisfactory  one. 
But  I  continue  to  shut  my  eyes  resolutely  in  certain 
speculative  directions,  and  am  willing  to  find  solace  in 
certain  intimations  that  seem  to  me  from  a  region 
higher  than  my  reason.  When  they  tell  me  that  I 
can't  know  certain  things,  I  am  apt  to  wonder  how  they 
can  be  sure  of  that,  and  whether  there  may  not  be 
things  which  they  cant  know.  I  went  through  my  re 
action  so  early  and  so  violently  that  I  have  been  set 
tling  backward  towards  equilibrium  ever  since.  As  I 
can't  be  certain,  I  won't  be  positive,  and  wouldn't  drop 
some  chapters  of  the  Old  Testament,  even,  for  all  the 
science  that  ever  undertook  to  tell  me  what  it  doesn't 
know.  They  go  about  to  prove  to  me  from  a  lot  of 
nasty  savages  that  conscience  is  a  purely  artificial  prod 
uct,  as  if  that  wasn't  the  very  wonder  of  it.  What 
odds  whether  it  is  the  thing  or  the  aptitude  that  is 
innate?  What  race  of  beasts  ever  got  one  up  in  all 
their  leisurely  seons  ? 

Our  spring  is  very  cold  and  backward,  though 
peaches,  pears,  and  cherries  are  grudgingly  blooming. 
I  hope  yours  is  more  generous,  for  I  think  May  sov 
ereign  for  an  inward  wound.  I  can't  recollect  whether 
you  know  the  Gurneys,  who  are  now  in  London.  If 
not,  I  must  have  given  them  a  letter.  You  will  like 
them  in  every  way.  They  are  delighted  with  dear  Old 
England. 

Always  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


1876]  TO    MISS   NORTON  169 

TO   MISS  NORTON 

Elmwood,  July  3,  1876. 

.  .  .  What  can  I  tell  you  about  Cincinnati?  The 
journey  impressed  me,  as  a  journey  in  America  always 
does,  with  the  wonderful  richness  and  comfort  of  the 
country,  and  with  the  distinctive  Americanism  that 
is  moulding  into  one  type  of  feature  and  habits  so 
many  races  that  had  widely  diverged  from  the  same 
original  stock.  Is  the  West  to  reproduce  the  primitive 
Aryan  who  wandered  out  of  the  East  so  long  ago  ? 
One  gets  also  an  impression  of  size  which  enables  one 
to  sympathize  with  his  countrymen  (as  I  love  to  do) 
in  the  mere  bigness  of  the  country.  These  immense 
spaces,  tremulous  with  the  young  grain,  trophies  of 
individual,  or  at  any  rate  of  unorganized  courage  and 
energy,  of  the  people  and  not  of  dynasties,  were  to 
me  inexpressibly  impressive  and  even  touching.  The 
whole  landscape  had  a  neighborly  air,  such  as  I  feel 
in  no  other  country.  The  men  who  have  done  and  are 
doing  these  things  know  how  things  should  be  done,  and 
will  find  some  way,  I  am  sure,  of  bringing  the  country 
back  to  business  principles.  It  was  very  interesting, 
also,  to  meet  men  from  Kansas  and  Nevada  and  Cali 
fornia,  to  see  how  manly  and  intelligent  they  were,  and 
especially  what  large  heads  they  had.  They  had  not 
the  manners  of  Vere  de  Vere,  perhaps,  but  they  had  an 
independence  and  self-respect  which  are  the  prime  ele 
ment  of  fine  bearing.  I  think  I  never  (not  even  in  Ger 
many)  sat  at  meat  with  so  many  men  who  used  their 
%  knives  as  shovels,  nor  with  so  many  who  were  so  quiet 
and  self-restrained  in  their  demeanor.  The  Western- 


170  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1876 

ers,  especially,  may  be  Grangers,  or  what  you  will  (it 
won't  be  the  first  case  in  history  where  self-interest  has 
blinded  men  to  the  rights  of  others — nor  the  last),  but 
you  feel  that  they  have  the  unmistakable  makings  of 
men  in  them.  They  were  less  sensitive  to  the  offences 
of  Blaine  than  I  could  have  wished,  but  I  suspect  that 
few  of  our  Boston  men  who  have  had  to  do  with  West 
ern  railways  have  been  more  scrupulous.  I  rather  think 
they  set  the  example  of  tempting  legislators  with  the 
hope  of  questionable  gains. 

I  am  glad  you  liked  Stephen's  article  as  well  as  I 
did.  It  seems  to  me,  on  the  whole,  the  best  thing  I 
have  read  about  Macaulay,  doing  more  justice  than  the 
rest  to  the  essential  manliness  and  Britishism  of  his 
character.  Morley's  paper  seemed  to  me  altogether 
too  a  priori  and  Teutonically  abstruse.  He  was  so 
profound  that  he  dug  under  his  subject  rather  than 
into  it,  and  I  confess  the  universe  is  so  brutally  indif 
ferent  to  us,  that  I  am  not  greatly  interested  in  the  dis 
cussion  of  any  particular  man's  relation  to  it.  That 
very  small  arc  of  which  the  eye  of  man  (however  tall) 
can  grasp  is  enough  for  me.  .  .  . 


TO  MRS.  

Elmwood,  July  4,  1876. 

.  .  .  You  must  be  beginning  to  think  me  the  most 
inconstant  of  men  to  have  left  your  last  letter  so  long 
without  an  answer.  But  the  explanation  of  it  is  simple 
enough,  though  women,  I  believe,  are  so  wise  as  never 
to  be  satisfied  with  an  explanation,  because  the  need  of 


1876]  TO    MRS.  171 

one  can  never  be  explained.  I  meant  to  have  written 
to  you  from  Cincinnati,  whither  I  went  in  the  hope  of 
helping  to  get  Mr.  Bristow  nominated  as  the  Republi 
can  candidate.  There,  I  thought,  I  should  have  plenty 
of  spare  time,  and  plenty  of  new  and  amusing  things  to 
tell  you  about.  But  I  had  no  leisure,  the  weather  was 
stewing  hot,  and  I  spent  all  the  intervals  of  business  in 
trying  to  make  myself  clean  with  a  very  stingy  supply 
of  water,  for  the  blacks  of  their  coal-smoke  stick  faster 
than  the  most  scriptural  brother.  I  was  wholly  de 
moralized  by  the  unwonted  color  of  my  finger-nails,  and 
kept  my  fists  carefully  doubled  to  hide  them  lest  I 

should  be  mistaken  for  a  partisan  of ,  the  dirtiness 

of  whose  hands  seemed  rather  an  argument  in  his  favor 
with  many.  I  had  little  hope  before  I  went  of  Mr. 
Bristow's  nomination,  but  desired  it  greatly  because  he 
had  shown  himself  a  practical  reformer,  and  because  I 
believed  that  a  Kentucky  candidate  might  at  least  give 
the  starting-point  for  a  party  at  the  South  whose  line 
of  division  should  be  other  than  sectional,  and  by  which 
the  natural  sympathy  between  reasonable  and  honest 
men  at  the  North  and  the  South  should  have  a  fair 
chance  to  reassert  itself.  We  failed,  but  at  least  suc 
ceeded  in  preventing  the  nomination  of  a  man  whose 
success  in  the  Convention  (he  would  have  been  beaten 
disastrously  at  the  polls)  would  have  been  a  lesson  to 
American  youth  that  selfish  partisanship  is  a  set-off  for 
vulgarity  of  character  and  obtuseness  of  moral  sense. 
I  am  proud  to  say  that  it  was  New  England  that  de 
feated  the  New  England  candidate. 

I  hope  you  are  as  far  away  from  the  noises  of  this 


1/2  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1876 

boisterous  anniversary  as  I.  I  was  asked  to  write  an 
ode  for  the  celebration  at  Taunton,  where  Mr.  C.  F. 
Adams  is  to  deliver  the  oration.  But  the  Muse  was 
unwilling,  and  I  would  not  condescend  to  the  mechan 
ical  compromise  of  a  hymn  with  verses  set  stiffly  as 
pins  in  a  paper,  but,  unlike  them,  of  a  non-conduct 
ing  material.  It  is  no  use  setting  traps  for  inspiration 
till  the  right  bait  shall  have  been  discovered.  With  the 
thermometer  at  90°  in  the  shade,  I  am,  on  the  whole, 
glad  I  wasn't  inspired. 

Since  you  were  here  I  have  changed  my  quarters, 
and  moved  out  of  the  library  into  the  room  in  front 
of  it,  where  a  long  window  gives  me  more  breeze,  and 
where  I  shall  have  the  morning  sun  in  winter,  which  I 
crave  more  as  I  grow  older.  When  you  come  again, 
I  hope  you  will  like  me  as  well  in  my  new  refuge  as 
in  the  old.  But  perhaps  by  this  time  my  silence  has 
vexed  you  enough  to  make  you  reconsider  your  good 
opinion  of  me  altogether? 

I  am  writing  to  cannon  music,  for  the  noon  salutes 
are  just  booming  in  every  direction,  and  with  some 
thing  of  the  effect  of  a  general  engagement.  Wom 
en,  I  think,  are  quiet  when  they  are  happiest,  and 
can  stitch  their  superfluous  exhilaration  into  a  seam, 
but  the  coarser  fibre  of  men  demands  an  immense 
amount  of  noise  to  make  it  vibrate  and  convince  them 
they  are  happy.  Or  is  it  that  uproar  deadens  reflec 
tion,  and  that  in  the  confusion  they  escape  arrest  by 
that  consciousness  of  the  futility  of  things  in  general 
which  is  so  saddening?  However  it  be,  I  am  glad  the 
nearest  guns  are  a  mile  away  from  me.  I  remembef 


1876]  TO    THOMAS    HUGHES  173 

how,  fifty  years  ago  to-day,  I,  perched  in  a  great  ox- 
heart  cherry-tree,  long  ago  turned  to  mould,  saw  my 
father  come  home  with  the  news  of  John  Adams's 
death.  I  wish  I  could  feel,  as  I  did  then,  that  we  were 
a  chosen  people,  with  a  still  valid  claim  to  divine  in 
terpositions.  It  is  from  an  opposite  quarter  that  most 
of  our  providences  seem  to  come  now.  But  those 
peaceful  fields  that  rimmed  the  railway  all  the  way 
to  Cincinnati,  trophies  of  honest  toil,  and  somehow 
looking  more  neighborly  than  in  other  lands,  were  a 
great  consolation  and  encouragement  to  me.  Here  was 
a  great  gain  to  the  sum  of  human  happiness,  at  least, 
however  it  be  with  the  higher  and  nobler  things  that 
make  a  country  truly  inhabitable.  Will  they  come  in 
time,  or  is  Democracy  doomed  by  its  very  nature  to  a 
dead  level  of  commonplace?  At  any  rate,  our  experi 
ment  of  inoculation  with  freedom  is  to  run  its  course 
through  all  Christendom,  with  what  result  the  wisest 
cannot  predict.  Will  it  only  insure  safety  from  the 
more  dangerous  disease  of  originality?  .  .  . 


TO   THOMAS   HUGHES 

Elmwood,  July  12,  1876. 

Dear  old  Friend, —  ...  I  have  taken  my  first  practi 
cal  dip  into  politics  this  summer,  having  been  sent  by 
my  neighbors  first  to  the  State  Convention  and  then  to 
the  National  at  Cincinnati.  I  am  glad  I  went,  for  I 
learned  a  great  deal  that  may  be  of  service  to  me  here 
after.  You  are  wrong  about  Hayes;  he  was  neither 
unknown  nor  even  unexpected  as  a  probable  nominee. 


174  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1876 

He  was  not  adopted  as  a  compromise  in  any  true  sense 
of  the  word,  but  as  an  unimpeachably  honest  man,  and 
the  only  one  on  whom  we  could  unite  to  defeat  Blaine, 
who  had  all  the  party  machinery  at  his  disposal.  The 
nomination  of  the  latter  would  have  been  a  national  ca 
lamity — the  most  costly  tub  of  whitewash  yet  heard  of. 
For,  really,  a  large  part  of  the  feeling  in  his  favor  was 
an  honest  (though  mistaken)  feeling  of  indignation  at 
a  partisan  persecution,  for  such  he  had  cunningly  con 
trived  to  make  the  inquiry  into  his  stock-jobbing  pro 
ceedings  appear.  His  nomination  might  have  done 
good  in  one  way — by  leading  to  the  formation  of  a  new 
party  based  simply  on  reform.  Such  a  party  would 
have  been  certainly  formed,  and  I  should  not  have  re 
gretted  it,  for  I  very  much  doubt  the  possibility  of  pu 
rifying  either  of  the  old  ones  from  within.  There  is 
very  little  to  choose  between  them ;  though,  so  far 
as  the  South  is  concerned,  I  rather  sympathize  with 
the  Democrats.  The  whole  condition  of  things  at  the 
South  is  shameful,  and  I  am  ready  for  a  movement 
now  to  emancipate  the  whites.  No  doubt  the  gov 
ernment  is  bound  to  protect  the  misintelligence  of  the 
blacks,  but  surely  not  at  the  expense  of  the  intelli 
gence  of  the  men  of  our  own  blood.  The  South,  on 
the  whole,  has  behaved  better  than  I  expected,  but 
our  extremists  expect  them  to  like  being  told  once  a 
week  that  they  have  been  licked.  The  war  was  fought 
through  for  nationality ;  'for  that  and  nothing  more. 
That  was  both  the  ostensible  and  the  real  motive. 
Emancipation  was  a  very  welcome  incident  of  the 
war,  and  nothing  more. 


1876]  TO   THOMAS   HUGHES  175 

Ever  since  '65  the  Republican  party  has  done  its 
best  (I  mean  its  leaders,  for  selfish  ends)  to  make  our 
victory  nugatory,  so  far  as  Reunion  was  concerned. 
The  people  I  believe  to  be  perfectly  sound,  and  as  hon 
est  (if  not  more  so)  as  any  other  on  the  earth.  But  it 
takes  a  great  while  for  the  people  to  have  its  way. 
There  is  a  good  deal  of  blundering  at  first,  a  good  deal 
of  righteous  wrath  that  misses  its  mark,  but  in  the  long 
run  we  shall  win. 

I  think  the  intelligence  of  the  country  is  decidedly  on 
the  Republican  side,  and  cannot  quite  get  over  my  dis 
trust  of  the  Democracy,  which  is  mainly  to  blame  for 
our  political  corruption. 

In  England  you  are  misled  by  your  free-trade  no 
tions  in  your  judgment  of  the  two  parties  here.  (I  don't 
mean  you  personally.)  Free  trade  has  nothing  to  hope 
from  either  of  them,  and  perhaps  the  most  ardent  free 
traders  are  Republicans,  but  we  shall  have  no  free  trade 
till  our  debt  is  cancelled. 

Our  real  weak  point  is  in  Congress,  and  your  zeal 
ous  enlargers  of  the  suffrage  had  better  think  twice.  I 
think  we  shall  gradually  get  better  men,  but  it  will  be 
a  slow  business.  I  myself  have  been  asked  to  stand 
in  my  district,  but  do  not  see  my  way  clear  to  so  very 
great  a  sacrifice.  I  am  hopeful  of  purification,  but  not 
sanguine. 

Emerson  is  well,  but  visibly  aging.  He  was  not  at 
our  Commencement  this  year,  the  first  time  I  have  ever 
missed  him  there.  He  is  as  sweetly  high-minded  as 
ever,  and  when  one  meets  him  the  Fall  of  Adam 
seems  a  false  report.  Afterwards  we  feel  of  our  throats, 


176  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1876 

and  are  startled  by  the  tell-tale  lump  there.  John 
Holmes  is  well,  and  delightful  as  usual.  He  is  lame 
again  just  now,  but  it  does  not  make  him  blue  as 
formerly.  I  wish  we  could  have  you  here  again.  We 
have  a  new  veranda  on  the  north  side,  which  is  a  great 
success.  (I  enclose  a  print.)  I  had  hoped  for  you  dur 
ing  the  Centennial  year.  We  are  taking  it  gravely,  I 
am  glad  to  see,  and  rather  incline  to  be  thoughtful  than 
bumptious.  I  wish  your  queen  (or  empress)  would  have 
had  the  grace  to  write  a  letter.  It  would  have  done 
good,  and  we  would  rather  have  had  one  from  her  than 
from  all  your  Wilhelms  and  Vittorio  Emanueles  to 
gether.  .  .  . 

Sept.  24,  1876. 

P.  S.  You  will  see  by  the  date  of  my  other  sheet 
that  it  was  written  more  than  two  months  ago.  I 
wrote  that  I  should  enclose  a  print,  and  found  that  the 
magazine  containing  it  had  been  given  away.  So  that 
very  day  I  ordered  another  of  our  periodical-dealer  (as 
we  call  a  newsman  here)  and  he  promised  to  get  one 
at  once,  adding  that  he  wished  for  a  copy  himself  also, 
as  it  contained  an  article  on  Cambridge.  At  intervals 
ever  since  I  have  asked  for  it  and  never  got  it,  but  am 
always  told  by  the  merchant  of  news  that  he  wants  one 
himself.  It  tickles  me  as  one  of  the  last  samples  to 
be  found  of  a  certain  Constantinopolitan  way  of  doing 
business  which  used  to  be  characteristic  of  the  Cam 
bridge  of  my  boyhood. 

Politics  have  not  changed  much  since  I  wrote — only 
the  worst  element  of  the  Republican  party  has  got  hold 
of  the  canvass,  and  everything  possible  is  done  to  stir 


1876]  TO   THOMAS    HUGHES  177 

up  the  old  passions  of  the  war.  Of  course  I  with  all 
sensible  men  hate  this,  but  our  protest  is  drowned  in 
the  drums  and  trumpets  of  a  presidential  election.  On 
the  whole,  I  shall  vote  for  Hayes,  and  the  best  judges 
think  his  election  the  likelier  of  the  two.  But  there 
will  be  a  strong  reaction  from  the  violences  of  the  con 
test  now  going  on,  and  Congress  will  be  more  in  oppo 
sition  with  the  executive  than  ever.  The  same  thing 
will  happen  if  Tilden  comes  in,  for  the  Democratic  party 
is  very  hungry  for  place,  and  their  professions  of  reform 
will  be  severely  tested.  Now,  as  the  good  men  of  both 
parties  are  honest  reformers,  I  think  we  shall  gradually 
get  an  independent  party,  and  then  the  country  will 
divide  on  rational  issues,  such  as  currency  and  tariff. 
Faith  in  democratical  forms  of  government  will  be 
painfully  strained  in  many  minds  if  Butler  should  carry 
eastern  Massachusetts,  as  he  probably  will.  I  shall  still 
think  them,  however,  as  nearly  ideal  as  some  other  ways 
of  doing  clumsily  what  might  be  done  well.  It  will  go 
hard  with  me  to  vote  against  Mr.  Adams  here  at  home,* 
and  perhaps,  if  things  go  on  from  bad  to  worse,  I  sha'n't. 
But  I  cannot  easily  bring  myself  to  trust  the  Democrats. 
His  nomination  has  had  one  odd  (and  good)  effect  here 
in  dividing  the  Irish  vote.  The  Fenians  regard  him  as 
an  enemy  of  Ireland,  because  he  did  his  duty  as  am 
bassador,  so  the  Irish  Democratic  orators  are  laboring 
to  convince  their  countrymen  that  a  man  can't  have 
two  countries  at  once,  though  most  of  'em  see  nothing 


*  Mr.  Charles  F.  Adams,  late  U.  S.  Minister  at  the  Court  of 
St.  James,  was  the  candidate  of  the  Democratic  party  for  gov 
ernor. 

IL— 12 


178  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1876 

wonderful  in  Sir  Boyle  Roche's  bird.  If  I  ever  get  the 
print  I  will  send  it,  for  we  are  rather  proud  of  our  new 
veranda,  which  longingly  awaits  you.  .  .  . 


TO   MISS  NORTON 

Elmwood,  Aug.  6, 

.  .  .  You  should  see  me  in  my  new  study,  with  the 

arches  wide  open  into  the  library,  as  we  shall  call  it.  ... 

Now  can  I  taste  the  pleasures  of  retreat ; 
Days  loitering  idly  with  snow-silent  feet, 
Truants  of  Time,  to-morrow  like  to-day, 
That  come  unbought,  and  claimless  glide  away 
By  shelves  that  sun  them  in  the  indulgent  Past, 
Where  111  hath  ceased  or  turned  to  song  at  last. 

Tell  Charles  that  these  verses  are  adapted  from  a  poem 
I  told  him  I  was  writing.  And,  lest  I  never  finish  them, 
I  will  copy  a  bit  or  two  more : 

Oh,  as  this  pensive  moonlight  blurs  my  pines 
(Here  as  I  sit  and  meditate  these  lines) 
To  gray-green  dreams  of  what  they  are  by  day, 
So  would  some  light,  not  reason's  clear-edged  ray, 
Trance  me  in  moonshine,  as  before  the  blight 
Of  years  had  brought  the  fatal  gift  of  sight 
That  sees  things  as  they  are,  or  will  be  soon, 
In  the  frank  prose  of  undissembling  noon ! 

Are  we  not  changed  ?     Is  this  the  Senate  now 
Where  Clay  once  flashed,  and  Webster's  cloudy  brow 
Brooded  those  bolts  of  thought  that  blazing  flew, 
And  whose  long  echoes  all  the  horizon  knew? 

I  think  that  will  do  for  once.     Tell  Charles,  also,  that 


1876]  TO    W.   D.   HOWELLS  179 

copying  the  first  passage  brought  back  to  my  mem 
ory  the  inscription  on  a  dial  which  I  fished  for  vainly 
the  other  night.  It  is  Pereunt  et  imputantur.  The 
Horas  non  numero  nisi  serenas  is  epicurean,  but  this 
other  is  gnomic,  and  therefore  more  suitable  to  a  sun 
dial 

By  the  vway,  don't  translate  pereunt  (in  the  dial  epi 
gram)  by  perish.  Any  fool  might  do  that.  It  has  the 
literal  meaning  which  we  have  lost.  "  They  go  by  and 
are  charged  to  our  account,"  as  I  ought  to  know  if  any 
body,  for  I  have  thrown  away  hours  enough  to  have 
made  a  handsome  reputation  out  of.  I  am  an  ass,  but 
then  I  know  it,  and  that  kind  (a  rare  species),  though 
pastured  on  east  wind  and  thistles  like  the  rest,  do  yet 
wear  their  ears  with  a  difference.  .  .  . 

TO  W.  D.  HOWELLS 

Elmwood,  Aug.  9,  1876. 

Dear  Howells, — You  are  very  kind  to  my  verses,  but 
I  can  stand  it,  especially  as  what  you  say  applies  to  a 
much  younger  fellow  than  I,  twenty  years  younger,  in 
fact,  and  who  had  not  yet  been  tripped  up  by  a  pro 
fessor's  gown.  .  .  . 

I  have  been  trifling  with  foolish  epigrams  lately. 
Here  is  one  I  made  last  night  as  I  lay  awake : 

A    DIALOGUE. 

"  Jones  owns  a  silver  mine."     "  Pray,  who  is  Jones  ? 
Don't  vex  my  ears  with  horrors  like  Jones  owns  T 
"Why,  Jones  is  Senator,  and  so  he  strives 
To  make  us  buy  his  ingots  all  our  lives 


l8o  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1876 

At  a  stiff  premium  on  the  market  price : 

A  silver  currency  would  be  so  nice !" 

"  What's  Jones's  plan  ?"     "  A  coinage,  to  be  sure, 

To  rise  and  fall  with  Wall  Street's  temperature. 

You  wish  to  treat  the  crowd :  Your  dollar  shrinks 

Undreamed  percentums  while  they  mix  the  drinks." 

Jones'  mine's  quicksilver,  then  ?"     "  Your  wit  won't  pass  ; 

"  His  coin's  mercurial,  but  his  mine  is  brass. 

Jones  owns  " — "  Again  !     Your  iteration's  worse 

Than  the  slow  torture  of  an  echo-verse. 

I'll  tell  you  one  thing  Jones  won't  own :  that  is, 

That  the  cat  hid  beneath  the  meal  is  his." 

You  see  I  am  getting  old.  The  compliment  I  paid 
you  to-day  is  no  sign  of  it,  however.  I  had  all  your 
books  catalogued  with  my  library  to-day.  "  Howells," 
said  I  to  the  young  man  who  is  doing  the  work  for  me, 
"  is  going  to  last.  He  knows  how  to  write."  If  you 
notice  the  poetry  from  the  Harvard  Advocate,  pat  him 
on  the  back.  His  name  is  Woodberry,  and  his  "  Violet 
Crown  "  is  a  far  cry  beyond  anything  else  in  the  vol 
ume.  I  hope  the  country  air  is  doing  lots  of  good  to 
Mrs.  Howells  and  the  weans.  As  for  you,  you  are  al 
ready,  like  dear  old  Jemmy  Thomson,  more  fat  than 
bard  beseems,  though  God  knows  you  don't  dwell  in 
the  Castle  of  Indolence.  .  .  . 

TO    C.  E.  NORTON 

Elmwood,  Monday  Night,  Aug.  21,  1876. 
...  I  received  a  deputation  this  evening  to  persuade 
me  to  reconsider  my  refusal  to  stand  for  Congress.    They 
tell  me  I  am  the  only  candidate  with  whom  the  Repub 
licans  can  carry  the  district,  that  they  have  thoroughly 


1876]  TO   MISS    NORTON  iSl 

canvassed  it  and  are  sure  that  I  should  be  elected  with 
out  the  need  of  any  effort,  that  no  one  else  could  get  the 
nomination  against  Claflin,  but  that  I  should  have  it  by 
acclamation.  I  confess  that  I  was  profoundly  touched 
by  this  testimony  of  my  neighbors,  but  did  not  yield. 
They  strove  to  make  me  see  it  as  my  duty,  but  I  can 
not.  I  will  confess  to  you  that  I  was  never  so  surprised 
in  my  life,  for  I  had  not  looked  on  my  candidacy  as  se 
rious.  The  members  of  this  delegation  were  not  even 
known  to  me  by  sight  —  except  one,  whom  I  remem 
bered  at  our  ward  caucus.  As  Sumner  said  at  our  club, 
"This  is  history,  and  you  had  better  listen  to  it!"  (He 
was  talking  of  himself.)  I  compare  myself  {facendo 
questo  gran  rifiuio]  to  Caesar  and  Cromwell  on  a  like 
occasion.  .  .  . 

TO  MISS  NORTON 

Elmwood,  Oct.  2,  1876. 

...  I  have  been  again  urged  to  stand  for  Congress 
(only  yesterday),  and  again  wisely  declined.  I  beat  Cae 
sar  and  Cromwell  and  the  other  historical  examples,  who 
only  put  aside  the  offered  crown  thrice,  and  this  is  my 
half-dozenth  self-denial.  The  truth  is,  and  I  have  frank 
ly  told  'em  so,  that  I  should  not  make  half  so  good  a 
member  as  they  think.  They  think  not,  but  I  know  it. 

Term  has  begun,  and  I  think  I  shall  enjoy  my  classes. 
I  begin  in  a  more  cheerful  mood  than  usual,  though 
rather  in  the  dumps  about  politics,  which  have  taken  a 
turn  all  through  the  canvass  much  to  my  distaste,  and 
now  all  this  end  of  the  State  seems  likely  to  be  given 
over,  by  bargain  and  sale,  into  the  hands  of  the  regular 


182  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1876 

old  set  of  corruptionists.  Even  in  this  district  they 
mean  to  force  on  us  as  candidate  for  Congress  the  man 
who  presided  at  a  reception  of  Elaine  the  other  night. 
I  preserve  my  equanimity,  but  am  losing  my  temper. . . . 
...  I  trust  your  native  air  will  set  you  on  your  feet 
again.  There  is  nothing  like  it,  I  think,  in  spite  of  the 
strong  taint  of  Butlerism  just  now.  But  think  how 
many  times  the  world  has  been  ruined  and  got  over  it 
so  bravely.  I  am  more  alarmed  at  what  they  say  of  the 
sun's  cooling.  It  takes  the  very  rowels  from  the  spur  of 
noble  minds.  For  what  is  a  beggarly  twenty  million  of 
years?  I  lose  all  interest  in  literature.  Let  us  write  for 
immediate  applause — and  done  with  it.  ... 


TO  MRS. 

Elmwood,  Oct.  9,  1876. 

Dear  Mrs. , — I  haven't   been   forgetting  you  all 

this  while,  but  all  kinds  of  preoccupations  of  one  kind 
and  another  (including  politics)  have  not  conduced  to 
the  untrammelled  mood  of  mind  which  is  the  main  con 
dition  of  agreeable  letter -writing.  I  am  worried  about 
the  turn  the  canvass  has  been  taking,  and  while  too  full 
of  traditional  and  well-founded  doubts  of  the  Demo 
cratic  party  to  be  a  willing  helper  in  the  success  of  its 
candidates,  an  equal  distrust  of  the  present  managers  of 
the  Republican  party  hinders  me  from  giving  any  cordial 
support  to  that.  Whichever  way  I  look  I  see  cause  of 
reasonable  anxiety,  and  since,  as  you  know,  I  do  not 
value  even  my  own  opinions  till  they  are  rooted  in  ex 
perience  and  have  weathered  the  blasts  of  argument,  I 


1876]  TO    R.  W.   GILDER  183 

am  slow  in  making  up  my  mind.  About  one  thing  I  am 
settled,  and  that  is  that  the  reviving  of  old  animosities 
for  a  temporary  purpose  (and  that,  too,  a  selfish  one),  the 
doing  evil  that  a  problematical  good  may  come  of  it,  is 
nothing  short  of  wicked.  The  good  hoped  for  is  ques 
tionable  and  at  best  temporary,  while  the  harm  is  of  the 
most  far-reaching  consequence.  We  are  deliberately  try 
ing  to  make  an  Ireland  of  the  South,  by  perpetuating 
misgovernment  there.  Scotland,  instead  of  being  as  now 
quite  as  loyal  as  any  part  of  Britain,  might  easily  have 
been  made  what  Ireland  is  by  the  same  treatment.  I 
don't  know  whether  the  Mr.  Lamar  whose  speech  I  have 
read  be  the  friend  of  whom  I  have  heard  you  speak,  but 
if  so,  I  congratulate  you  in  having  at  least  one  friend 
who  is  both  an  able  man  and  a  wise  one,  if  indeed  the 
one  quality  do  not  necessarily  imply  the  other. 

I  think  I  wrote  to  you  about  my  change  of  quarters. 
I  am  in  the  front  room  now,  with  a  bright  October  sun 
shining  in  on  me  as  I  write,  and  I  dare  say  it  was  the 
sense  of  cheerfulness  that  reminded  me  of  you,  for  we 
found  you  all  sunshine  while  you  were  with  us.  When 
the  sun  gives  out  (as  you  awful  scientific  people  tell  us 
it  will  one  of  these  days)  I  shall  turn  to  you  for  a  spare 
pinch  of  warmth  now  and  then — if  the  catastrophe  take 
place  in  my  time.  .  .  . 

TO    R.  \V.  GILDER 

Elmwood,  Nov.  29, 1876. 
...  I  have  read  the  review  of  "  Deirdre  "  *  you  were 

*  "  Deirdre,"  a  poem  by  the  late  Dr.  R.  D.  Joyce. 


184  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1876 

good  enough  to  send  me,  and  think  it  kindly  and  dis 
criminating.  I  read  the  poem  in  manuscript,  and  recom 
mended  it  for  publication  on  the  ground  of  the  freshness 
and  force  which  gave  it  a  sincere  originality,  in  spite  of  an 
obvious  external  likeness  to  Morris.  Of  course  I  never 
spoke  of  it  as  I  hear  I  have  been  represented  as  speak 
ing.  At  my  age  one  has  no  more  extravagant  opinions 
— or  keeps  them  for  his  own  amusement. 

Thank  you  for  the  kind  things  you  say  of  my  ode.  I 
value  highly  the  sympathy  of  one  who  is  qualified  to 
judge  and  who  works  in  the  same  spirit  in  which  I  try 
to  work,  though  in  a  different  line.  .  .  . 

TO   LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Elmwood,  Dec.  4,  1876. 

...  I  have  received  your  book*  and  hasten  to  thank 
you  for  it — not,  however,  before  reading  it  with  the  at 
tention  it  deserves.  I  thank  you  also  for  the  Crabbe,  for 
which  I  must  be  indebted  to  somebody  in  good  shillings 
and  pence,  but  no  bill  came  with  it.  Will  you  kindly 
find  out  for  me  what  I  owe  and  to  whom  ?  Your  book 
interested  me  profoundly  and  instructed  me  as  much  as 
it  interested.  .  .  .  Yet  I  was  conscious  of  you  (and  this 
was  very  pleasant)  all  the  while  I  read.  Some  of  your 
obiter  dicta  tickled  me  immensely  by  their  wit  and 
keenness.  How  the  deuce  you  read  all  those  books 
and  escaped  to  tell  us  of  'em  is  a  conundrum  I  shall 
carry  unsolved  to  my  grave.  I  am  very  much  in  the 
state  of  mind  of  the  Bretons  who  revolted  against  the 

*  "  English  Thought  in  the  Eighteenth  Century." 


1876]  TO    LESLIE    STEPHEN  185 

Revolutionary  Government  and  wrote  upon  their  ban 
ners,  "  Give  us  back  our  God  !"  I  suppose  I  am  an 
intuitionalist,  and  there  I  mean  to  stick.  I  accept  the 
challenge  of  common-sense  and  claim  to  have  another 
faculty,  as  I  should  insist  that  a  peony  was  red,  though 
twenty  color-blind  men  denied  it.  Your  book  has  for 
tified  me,  and  one  thing  in  it  constantly  touched  me, 
namely,  that,  whatever  your  belief,  and  whatever  proof 
you  ask  before  believing,  you  show  much  tenderness 
for  whatever  is  high-minded  and  sincere,  even  where 
you  think  it  mistaken.  About  most  things,  I  am  happy 
to  think,  we  are  agreed.  .  .  . 

I  sat  down  to  write  this  letter  in  entire  peace  of 
mind,  but  had  hardly  begun  it  when  in  came  a  reporter 
to  "  interview  "  me  as  one  of  the  presidential  electors 
of  Massachusetts,  and  at  intervals  since  three  others 
have  presented  themselves.  There  was  a  rumor,  it 
seems,  that  I  was  going  to  vote  for  Tilden.  But,  in 
my  own  judgment,  I  have  no  choice,  and  am  bound  in 
honor  to  vote  for  Hayes,  as  the  people  who  chose  me 
expected  me  to  do.  They  did  not  choose  me  because 
they  had  confidence  in  my  judgment,  but  because  they 
thought  they  knew  what  that  judgment  would  be.  If 
I  had  told  them  that  I  should  vote  for  Tilden,  they 
would  never  have  nominated  me.  It  is  a  plain  ques 
tion  of  trust.  The  provoking  part  of  it  is  that  I  tried 
to  escape  nomination  all  I  could,  and  only  did  not  de 
cline  because  I  thought  it  would  be  making  too  much 
fuss  over  a  trifle.  , 


VIII 


VISIT  TO  BALTIMORE.  —  APPOINTED  MINISTER  TO  SPAIN.  —  LIFE 
IN  MADRID.  —  JOURNEY  IN  SOUTHERN  FRANCE.  -  VISIT  TO 
ATHENS  AND  CONSTANTINOPLE.  —  ILLNESS  OF  MRS.  LOWELL. 
-  TRANSFERRED  TO  LONDON. 

LETTERS  TO  MRS.  -  ,  J.  B.  THAYER,  C.  E.  NORTON,  F.  J.  CHILD, 
MISS  NORTON,  MRS.  E.  BURNETT,  MISS  GRACE  NORTON,  THOMAS 
HUGHES,  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW,  GEORGE  PUTNAM,  J.  W.  FIELD, 
MRS.  W.  E.  DARWIN,  LESLIE  STEPHEN,  R.  W.  GILDER. 


TO    MRS. 


Elmwood,  Jan.  14,  1877. 

Dear  Mrs. , — This  morning  I  poured  some  ink 

for  the  first  time  into  your  pretty  inkstand,  and,  as  in 
duty  bound,  hansel  it  by  writing  to  you.  It  has  been 
standing  on  the  shelf  of  my  secretary,  its  mouth  wide., 
open  with  astonishment  at  my  ingratitude  in  not  writ 
ing  to  thank  you,  ever  since  it  came.  It  needn't  have 
been  so  jealous  though,  for  I  have  written  to  nobody 
else  meanwhile,  and  it  should  remember  that  I  can  at 
any  moment  shut  it  up  tight,  deny  it  ink,  pen,  and 
paper,  and  thus  cut  it  off  from  all  its  friends.  "  Mon 
ster  !"  I  seem  to  hear  it  say,  "  you  would  not  surely 
deny  me  the  sad  consolation  of  sending  my  love  to  Mrs. 
and  telling  her  how  homesick  I  am  ?  There  are 


1877]  TO    MRS. 187 

all  kinds  of  fine  things  in  me,  as  good  as  were  ever  in 
any  inkstand  that  ever  lived,  if  you  had  but  the  wit  to 
fish  them  out.  If  I  had  stayed  with  my  dear  mistress 
I  should  ere  this  have  found  a  vent  for  my  genius  in  a 
score  of  pleasant  ways,  but  with  you  I  fear  lest  I  go  to 
my  grave  an  encrier  incompris  /"  "  Well,  well,  so  long 
as  you  don't  make  me  uneasy  with  your  reproaches,  I 
shall  be  sure  to  treat  you  kindly  for  the  sake  of  your 
old  mistress,  .  .  .  who  is  always  contriving  pleasant  ways 
of  making  her  friends  grateful."  .  .  . 

I  hope  you  maintain  your  tranquillity  in  this  fer 
ment  of  politics.  I  do,  for,  as  I  made  up  my  mind  delib 
erately,  so  I  do  not  change  it  to  please  the  first  man  I 
meet.  As  I  consider  the  question  of  good  government 
and  prosperity  in  the  Southern  States  the  most  pressing 
one,  I  voted  for  Mr.  Hayes  on  the  strength  of  his  let 
ter.  I  think  it  would  be  better  for  North  and  South  if 
he  were  President.  He  would  carry  with  him  the  bet 
ter  elements  of  the  Republican  party,  and  whatever  its 
shortcomings  (of  which  none  is  more  bitterly  conscious 
than  I),  the  moral  force  of  the  North  and  West  is  with 
them  and  not  with  the  Democrats.  Above  all,  if  Mr. 
Hayes  should  show  a  wise  sympathy  with  the  real 
wants  and  rights  of  the  Southern  whites  (as  I  believe 
he  would),  it  would  be  felt  at  the  South  to  be  a  proof 
that  the  whole  country  was  inclined  to  do  them  jus 
tice.  From  Mr.  Tilden  and  the  Democrats  it  would  be 
received  as  a  matter  of  course.  You  see  what  I  mean  ? 
Of  course  I  am  not  one  of  those  who  would  have  Mr. 
Hayes  "  counted  in." 

I  shall  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  now  in  a  few 


l88  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1877 

weeks.  We  have  decided  that,  on  the  whole,  it  is  best 
that  Mrs.  Lowell  should  not  come  with  me.  We  both 
regret  it,  but  it  is  wise.  Wisdom  always  has  a  savor 
of  regret  in  it  ever  since  Eve's  time.  We  have  been 
having  a  noble  winter.  The  old  fellow  has  been  show 
ing  a  little  feebleness  for  a  year  or  two,  and  we 
thought  he  had  abdicated.  But  now  he  has  grasped 
his  icicle  again  and  governs  as  well  as  reigns.  The 
world  looks  like  a  lamb  in  its  white  fleece,  but  some  of 
us  know  better. 

Mrs.  Lowell  sends  her  love,  and  I  wish  you  and  yours 
many  happy  returns  of  the  New  Year.  Unhappily  it  is 
generally  the  Old  Year  that  comes  back  again.  How 
ever,  we  all  play  it  is  the  New,  and  that  is  something. 

Good-by. 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

\ 

TO   JAMES   B.  THAYER 

Elmwood,  Jan.  14,  1877. 

Dear  Sir, — I  am  heartily  thankful  to  you  for  your 
very  encouraging  note.  I  write  verses  now  with  as 
much  inward  delight  as  ever,  but  print  them  with  less 
confidence.  For  poetry  should  be  a  continuous  and 
controlling  mood,  the  mind  should  be  steeped  in  poeti 
cal  associations,  and  the  diction  nourished  on  the  purest 
store  of  the  Attic  bee,  and  from  all  these  my  necessary 
professional  studies  are  alien.  I  think  the  "  Old  Elm  " 
the  best  of  the  three,*  mainly  because  it  was  composed 

*  Three  Memorial  Poems :  "  Ode  read  at  the  One  Hundredth 


1877]  TO   JAMES    B.   THAYER  189 

after  my  college  duties  were  over,  though  even  in  that 
I  was  distracted  by  the  intervention  of  the  Commence 
ment  dinner. 

But  what  I  wished  to  say  a  word  to  you  about  (since 
you  are  so  generous  in  your  judgment)  is  the  measures 
I  have  chosen  in  these  as  well  as  the  "  Commemoration 
Ode."  I  am  induced  to  this  by  reading  in  an  article  on 
Cowley  copied  into  the  Living  Age  from  the  Cornhill 
(and  a  very  good  article  too,  in  the  main)  the  following 
passage,  "  As  lately  as  our  own  day "  (my  ear  would 
require  "  So  lately  as,"  by  the  way)  "  Mr.  Lowell's  '  Com 
memoration  Ode'  is  a  specimen  of  the  formless  poem 
of  unequal  lines  and  broken  stanzas  supposed  to  be  in 
the  manner  of  Pindar,  but  truly  the  descendant  of  our 
royalist  poet's  '  majestick  numbers.'  "  Now,  whatever 
my  other  shortcomings  (and  they  are  plenty,  as  none 
knows  better  than  I),  want  of  reflection  is  not  one  of 
them.  The  poems  were  all  intended  for  public  recita 
tion.  That  was  the  first  thing  to  be  considered.  I  sup 
pose  my  ear  (from  long  and  painful  practice  on  <E>.  B.  K. 
poems)  has  more  technical  experience  in  this  than  al 
most  any.  The  least  tedious  measure  is  the  rhymed 
heroic,  but  this,  too,  palls  unless  relieved  by  passages  of 
wit  or  even  mere  fun.  A  long  series  of  uniform  stanzas 
(I  am  always  speaking  of  public  recitation)  with  regu 
larly  recurring  rhymes  produces  somnolence  among  the 
men  and  a  desperate  resort  to  their  fans  on  the  part 

Anniversary  of  the  Fight  at  Concord  Bridge,  April  19,  1775"; 
"  Under  the  Old  Elm,"  poem  read  at  Cambridge  on  the  hun 
dredth  anniversary  of  Washington's  taking  command  of  the 
American  army,  July  3,  1775;  an  "Ode  for  the  Fourth  of  July, 
1876." 


190  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1877 

of  the  women.  No  method  has  yet  been  invented  by 
which  the  train  of  thought  or  feeling  can  be  shunted 
off  from  the  epical  to  the  lyrical  track.  My  ears  have 
been  jolted  often  enough  over  the  sleepers  on  such  oc 
casions  to  know  that.  I  know  something  (of  course  an 
American  can't  know  much)  about  Pindar.  But  his 
odes  had  the  advantage  of  being  chanted.  Now,  my 
problem  was  to  contrive  a  measure  which  should  not 
be  tedious  by  uniformity,  which  should  vary  with  vary 
ing  moods,  in  which  the  transitions  (including  those  of 
the  voice)  should  be  managed  without  jar.  I  at  first 
thought  of  mixed  rhymed  and  blank  verses  of  unequal 
measures,  like  those  in  the  choruses  of  "  Samson  Ago- 
nistes,"  which  are  in  the  main  masterly.  Of  course, 
Milton  deliberately  departed  from  that  stricter  form  of 
the  Greek  Chorus  to  which  it  was  bound  quite  as  much 
(I  suspect)  by  the  law  of  its  musical  accompaniment  as 
by  any  sense  of  symmetry.  I  wrote  some  stanzas  of 
the  '*  Commemoration  Ode"  on  this  theory  at  first,  leav 
ing  some  verses  without  a  rhyme  to  match.  But  my 
ear  was  better  pleased  when  the  rhyme,  coming  at  a 
longer  interval,  as  a  far-off  echo  rather  than  instant  re 
verberation,  produced  the  same  effect  almost,  and  yet 
was  grateful  by  unexpectedly  recalling  an  association 
and  faint  reminiscence  of  consonance.  I  think  I  have 
succeeded  pretty  well,  and  if  you  try  reading  aloud  I 
believe  you  would  agree  with  me.  The  sentiment  of 
the  "  Concord  Ode  "  demanded  a  larger  proportion  of 
lyrical  movements,  of  course,  than  the  others.  Harmo 
ny,  without  sacrifice  of  melody,  was  what  I  had  mainly 
in  view. 


1877]  TO   JAMES    B.   THAYER  IQI 

The  Cornhill  writer  adds  that  "  Keats,  Shelley,  and 
Swinburne,  on  the  other  hand,  have  restored  to  the 
ode  its  harmony  and  shapeliness."  He  and  I  have 
different  notions  of  harmony.  He  evidently  means 
uniformity  of  recurrence.  It  isn't  true  of  Shelley,  some 
of  whose  odes  certainly  were  written  on  the  Cowley 
model.  All  of  Wordsworth's  are,  except  the  "  Power 
of  Sound"  and  the  "Immortality,"  which  is  irregular, 
but  whose  cadences  were  learned  of  Gray.  (Our  critic, 
by  the  way,  calls  the  latter,  whose  name  he  spells  with 
an  e,  a  "  follower  of  Cowley."  Gray's  odes  are  regu 
lar.)  Coleridge's  are  also  Cowleian  in  form,  I  am  pretty 
sure.  But  all  these  were  written  for  the  closet — and 
mine  for  recitation.  I  chose  my  measures  with  my 
ears  open.  So  I  did  in  writing  the  poem  on  Rob 
Shaw.  That  is  regular  because  meant  only  to  be 
read,  and  because  also  I  thought  it  should  have  in  the 
form  of  its  stanza  something  of  the  formality  of  an 
epitaph. 

Pardon  me  all  this.  But  I  could  not  help  wishing  to 
leave  in  friendly  hands  a  protest  against  being  thought 
a  lazy  rhymer  who  wrote  in  numeris  that  seem,  but  are 
not,  lege  solutis,  because  it  was  easier.  It  isn't  easier,  if 
it  be  done  well,  that  is,  if  it  attain  to  a  real  and  not  a 
merely  visual  harmony  of  verse.  The  mind  should  be 
rhymed  to,  as  well  as  the  ear  and  eye.  Mere  uniform 
ity  gives  the  columns  and  wings  and  things  of  Her 
bert  and  Quarles.  If  I  had  had  more  time  to  mull  over 
my  staves  they  would  have  been  better. 

Gratefully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


192  LETTERS    OF    JAMES   RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1877 

TO    C.  E.  NORTON 

Baltimore,*  Feb.  18,  1877. 

...  It  happened  that  Judge  Brown  spoke  of  a  letter 
he  had  received  recommending  somebody  for  the  Pro 
fessorship  of  Philosophy  here.  This  gave  Child  a 

chance  to  speak  of (Judge  Brown  is  one  of  the 

trustees  of  the  Johns  Hopkins),  which  he  did  as  excel 
lently  well  as  he  lectures  on  Chaucer  and  reads  him, 
and  that  is  saying  a  great  deal.  You  lost,  by  the  way, 
a  very  great  pleasure  in  not  hearing  him  read  the  Nonnes 
Prestes  tale.  I  certainly  never  heard  anything  better. 
He  wound  into  the  meaning  of  it  (as  Dr.  Johnson  says 
of  Burke)  like  a  serpent,  or  perhaps  I  should  come 
nearer  to  it  if  I  said  that  he  injected  the  veins  of  the 
poem  with  his  own  sympathetic  humor  till  it  seemed 
to  live  again.  I  could  see  his  hearers  take  the  fun  be 
fore  it  came,  their  faces  lighting  with  the  reflection  of 
his.  I  never  saw  anything  better  done.  I  wish  I  could 
inspire  myself  with  his  example,  but  I  continue  de 
jected  and  lumpish.  .  .  . 

Child  goes  on  winning  all  ears  and  hearts.  I  am  re 
joiced  to  have  this  chance  of  seeing  so  much  of  him, 
for  though  I  loved  him  before,  I  did  not  know  how 
lovable  he  was  till  this  intimacy.  .  .  . 

TO   MISS   NORTON 

"  Bahltimer,"  Feb.  22,  1877. 
.  .  .  We  have  just  come  back  from  celebrating  our 

*  This  visit  to  Baltimore  was  for  the  purpose  of  giving  a  course 
of  lectures  on  Poetry  at  Johns  Hopkins  University. 


1877]  TO    MISS    NORTON  193 

Johns  Hopkins  Commemoration,  and  I  came  home 
bringing  my  sheaf  with  me  in  the  shape  of  a  lovely 
bouquet  (I  mean  nosegay)  sent  me  by  a  dear  old  Quaker 
lady  who  remembered  that  it  was  my  birthday.  We 
had  first  a  very  excellent  address  by  our  President  Oil 
man,  then  one  by  Professor  Gildersleeve  on  Classical 
Studies,  and  by  Professor  Silvester  on  the  Study  of 
Mathematics,  both  of  them  very  good  and  just  enough 
spiced  with  the  personality  of  the  speaker  to  be  tak 
ing.  Then  I,  by  special  request,  read  a  part  of  my 
Cambridge  Elm  poem,  and  actually  drew  tears  from 
the  eyes  of  bitter  secessionists — comparable  with  those 
iron  ones  that  rattled  down  Pluto's  cheek.  I  didn't 
quite  like  to  read  the  invocation  to  Virginia  here — I 
was  willing  enough  three  or  four  hundred  miles  north 
—but  I  think  it  did  good.  Teakle  Wallace  (Charles 
will  tell  you  who  he  is),  a  prisoner  of  Fort  Warren,  came 
up  to  thank  me  with  dry  eyes  (which  he  and  others 
assured  me  had  been  flooded),  and  Judge  Brown  with 
the  testifying  drops  still  on  his  lids. 

Silvester  paid  a  charming  compliment  to  Child,  and 
so  did  Gildersleeve.  The  former  said  that  he  (C.)  had 
invented  a  new  pleasure  for  them  in  his  reading  of 
Chaucer,  and  G.,  that  you  almost  saw  the  dimple  of 
Chaucer's  own  smile  as  his  reading  felt  out  the  humor 
of  the  verse.  The  house  responded  cordially.  If  I 
had  much  vanity  I  should  be  awfully  cross,  but  I  am 
happy  to  say  that  I  have  enjoyed  dear  Child's  four 
weeks'  triumph  (of  which  he  alone  is  unconscious)  to 
the  last  laurel-leaf.  He  is  such  a  delightful  creature. 
I  never  saw  so  much  of  him  before,  and  should  be 
II.— 13 


194  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1877 

glad  I  came  here  if  it  were  for  [nothing  but]  my  nearer 
knowledge  and  enjoyment  of  him. 

We  are  overwhelmed  with  kindness  here.  I  feel  very 
much  as  an  elderly  oyster  might  who  was  suddenly 
whisked  away  into  a  polka  by  an  electric  eel.  How 
I  shall  ever  do  for  a  consistent  hermit  again  Heaven 
only  knows.  I  eat  five  meals  a  day,  as  on  board  a 
Cunarder  on  the  mid-ocean,  and  on  the  whole  bear  it 
pretty  well,  especially  now  that  there  are  only  four 
lectures  left.  I  shall  see  you  I  hope  in  a  week  from 
to-morrow.  Going  away  from  home,  I  find,  does  not 
tend  to  make  us  wwakrvalue  those  we  left  behind.  .  .  . 
Your  affectionate  old  friend, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO   MRS.  E.  BURNETT 

Elmwood,  June  5,  1877. 

...  It  must  be  kept  close,  but  I  have  refused  to  go 
either  to  Vienna  or  Berlin.  Indeed  I  have  no  desire 
to  go  abroad  at  all.  But  I  had  said  that  "  I  would  have 
gone  to  Spain,"  supposing  that  place  to  have  been  al 
ready  filled.  But  on  Saturday  I  saw  Mr.  Evarts  (by 
his  request)  at  the  Revere  House,  who  told  me  that 
the  President  was  much  disappointed  by  my  refusal. 
He  (Mr.  Evarts)  thought  it  possible  that  an  exchange 
might  be  made,  in  which  case  I  shall  have  to  go.  It 
will  be  of  some  use  to  me  in  my  studies,  and  I  shall 
not  stay  very  long  at  any  rate.  But  it  is  hard  to  leave 
Elmwood  while  it  is  looking  so  lovely.  The  canker- 
worms  have  burned  up  all  my  elms  and  apple-trees,  to 
be  sure,  but  everything  else  is  as  fresh  as  Eden.  I  tried 


1877]  TO   MISS   GRACE   NORTON  195 

troughs  and  kerosene  round  the  two  elms  near  the 
house  and  they  are  not  wholly  consumed,  but  are  bad 
enough.  The  crow  blackbirds,  after  prospecting  tvvo 
years,  have  settled  in  the  pines  and  make  the  view 
from  the  veranda  all  the  livelier.  It  is  a  very  birdy 
year  for  some  reason  or  other.  I  can't  explain  it,  but 
there  is  a  great  difference  in  the  volatility  (as  Dr.  Hos- 
mer  would  have  said)  of  the  seasons.  .  .  . 


TO    MISS   GRACE   NORTON 

Elmwood,  July  i,  1877. 

.  .  .  We  have  been  having  a  very  busy  week  as  you 
know.  The  President's  visit  was  really  most  success 
ful,  so  far  as  the  impression  made  by  him  went.  He 
seemed  to  me  simple  and  earnest,  and  I  can't  think 
that  a  man  who  has  had  five  horses  killed  under  him 
will  be  turned  back  by  a  little  political  discomfort.  He 
has  a  better  head  than  the  photographs  give  him,  and 
the  expression  of  the  eyes  is  more  tender.  I  was  on 
my  guard  against  the  influence  which  great  opportu 
nities  almost  always  bring  to  bear  on  us  in  making  us 
insensibly  transfer  to  the  man  a  part  of  the  greatness 
that  belongs  to  the  place.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Hayes  also  pleased 
me  very  much.  She  has  really  beautiful  eyes,  full  of 
feeling  and  intelligence,  and  bore  herself  with  a  sim 
ple  good-humor  that  was  perfectly  well-bred.  A  very 
good  American  kind  of  princess,  I  thought.  Don't 
fancy  I  am  taken  off  my  feet  by  the  enthusiasm  of 
contagion.  You  know  I  am  only  too  fastidious,  and 
am  too  apt  to  be  put  at  a  disadvantage  by  the  impar- 


196  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1877 

tiality  of  my  eyes.  No,  I  am  sure  that  both  the  Presi 
dent  and  his  wife  have  in  them  that  excellent  new 
thing  we  call  Americanism,  which  I  suppose  is  that 
"  dignity  of  human  nature  "  which  the  philosophers  of 
the  last  century  were  always  seeking  and  never  find 
ing,  and  which,  after  all,  consists,  perhaps,  in  not  think 
ing  yourself  either  better  or  worse  than  your  neighbors 
by  reason  of  any  artificial  distinction.  As  I  sat  behind 
them  at  the  concert  the  other  night,  I  was  profoundly 
touched  by  the  feeling  of  this  kingship  without  man 
tle  and  crown  from  the  property-room  of  the  old  world. 
Their  dignity  was  in  their  very  neighborliness,  instead 
of  in  their  distance,  as  in  Europe.  .  .  . 

You  must  remember  that  I  am  "  H.  E."  now  my 
self,  and  can  show  a  letter  with  that  superscription.  I 
haven't  yet  discovered  in  what  my  particular  kind  of 
excellency  consists,  but  when  I  do  I  will  let  you  know. 
It  is  rather  amusing,  by  the  way,  to  see  a  certain  added 
respect  in  the  demeanor  of  my  fellow-townsmen  towards 
me,  as  if  I  had  drawn  a  prize  in  the  lottery  and  was 
somebody  at  last.  Indeed,  I  don't  believe  I  could  per 
suade  any  except  my  old  friends  of  the  reluctance  with 
which  I  go.  I  dare  say  I  shall  enjoy  it  after  I  get  there, 
but  at  present  it  is  altogether  a  bore  to  be  honorabled 
at  every  turn.  The  world  is  a  droll  affair.  And  yet, 
between  ourselves,  dear  Grace,  I  should  be  pleased  if 
my  father  could  see  me  in  capitals  on  the  Triennial 
Catalogue.*  You  remember  Johnson's  pathetic  letter 


*  The  triennial  (now  quinquennial)  catalogue  of  the  graduates 
of  Harvard  College;  now,  since  Harvard  has  grown  to  a  Univer 
sity,  deprived  alike  of  the  dignity  of  its  traditional  Latin  and 


1877]  TO    THOMAS    HUGHES  197 

to  Chesterfield.     How  often  I   think  of   it  as   I  grow 
older !  .  .  . 

TO   THOMAS   HUGHES 

Elmwood,  July  2,  1877. 

...  I  should  have  written  to  you  at  once,  when  I 
finally  made  up  my  mind  to  go  to  Madrid,  but  that  I 
heard  of  the  death  of  Mrs.  Senior.  Just  after  this  I  lost 
one  of  my  oldest  and  dearest  friends  in  Jane  Norton, 
and  then  went  Edmund  Quincy,  an  intimate  of  more 
than  thirty  years,  at  a  moment's  warning.  I  had  always 
reckoned  on  their  both  surviving  me  (though  Quincy  was 
eleven  years  my  elder),  for  they  both  came  of  long-lived 
races.  Of  Mrs.  Senior  I  have  a  most  delightful  remem 
brance  when  we  rowed  together  on  the  Thames,  and  she 
sang  "  Sally  in  our  Alley  "  and  "  Wapping  Old  Stairs  "  in 
a  voice  that  gave  more  than  Italian  sweetness  to  English 
words.  I  thought  that  her  sympathy  with  the  poor,  and 
her  habit  of  speaking  with  them,  had  helped  to  give  this 
sweetness  to  her  voice.  If  heaven  were  a  place  where  it 
was  all  singing,  as  our  Puritan  forebears  seem  to  have 
thought,  the  desire  to  hear  that  voice  again  would  make 
one  more  eager  to  get  there.  I  was  in  a  very  gloomy 
mood  for  a  week  or  two,  and  didn't  like  to  write.  There 
is  no  consolation  in  such  cases,  for  not  only  the  heart  re 
fuses  to  be  comforted,  but  the  eyes  also  have  a  hunger 
which  can  never  be  stilled  in  this  world. 


of  those  capitals  in  which  the  sons  of  hers  who  had  attained  to 
public  official  distinction  such  as  that  of  Member  of  Congress, 
or  Governor  of  a  State,  or  Judge  of  a  U.  S.  Court,  were  elevated 
above  their  fellow-students.  To  have  one's  name  in  capitals  in 
the  catalogue  was  a  reward  worth  achieving. 


198  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1877 

TO    MISS    GRACE  NORTON 

Grosvenor  Hotel,  Park  Street, 
London,  July  29,  1877. 

...  I  have  just  come  in  from  Hyde  Park,  whither  I 
go  to  smoke  my  cigar  after  breakfast.  The  day  is  as 
fine  as  they  can  make  'em  in  London :  the  sun  shines 
and  the  air  is  meadowy.  I  sat  and  watched  the  sheep 
crawl  through  the  filmy  distance,  unreal  as  in  a  pastoral 
of  the  last  century,  as  if  they  might  have  walked  out  of 
a  London  eclogue  of  Gay.  Fancy  saw  them  watched  by 
beribboned  shepherdesses  and  swains.  Now  and  then  a 
scarlet  coat  would  cross  my  eye  like  a  stain  of  blood  on 
the  innocent  green.  The  trees  lifted  their  cumulous  out 
lines  like  clouds,  and  all  around  was  the  ceaseless  hum 
of  wheels  that  never  sleep.  .  .  .  This  scene  in  the  Park 
is  one  of  which  I  never  tire.  I  like  it  better  than  any 
thing  in  London.  If  I  look  westward  I  am  in  the  coun 
try.  If  I  turn  about,  there  is  the  never-ebbing  stream 
of  coaches  and  walkers,  the  latter  with  more  violent  con 
trasts  of  costume  and  condition  than  are  to  be  seen  any 
where  else,  and  with  oddities  of  face  and  figure  that 
make  Dickens  seem  no  caricaturist.  The  landscape  has 
the  quiet  far-offness  of  Chaucer.  The  town  is  still  the 
town  of  Johnson's  London.  .  .  . 


TO   THE   SAME 

Hotel  de  Lorraine,  7  Rue  de  Beaune, 
Paris,  Aug.  8,  1877. 

.  .  .  Here  we  are  in  the  same  little  hotel  in  which 
you  left  us  five  years  ago,  and  I  never  walk  out  but  I 


1877]  TO    MISS    GRACE   NORTON  199 

meet  with  scenes  and  objects  associated  with  you.  It  is 
the  same  Paris,  and  more  than  ever  strikes  me  as  the 
handsomest  city  in  the  world.  I  find  nothing  compara 
ble  to  the  view  up  and  down  the  river,  or  to  the  liveli 
ness  of  its  streets.  At  night  the  river  with  its  reflected 
lights,  its  tiny  bateaux  mouches  with  their  ferret  eyes, 
creeping  stealthily  along  as  if  in  search  of  prey,  and  the 
dimly  outlined  masses  of  building  that  wall  it  in,  gives 
me  endless  pleasure.  I  am  as  fond  as  ever  of  the  per 
petual  torchlight  procession  of  the  avenue  of  the  Champs 
Elysfos  in  the  evening,  and  the  cafes  chantants  are  more 
like  the  Arabian  Nights  than  ever.  I  am  pleased,  too, 
as  before  with  the  amiable  ways  and  caressing  tones  of 
the  French  women — the  little  girl  who  waits  on  us  at 
breakfast  treats  us  exactly  as  if  we  were  two  babies 
of  whom  she  had  the  charge — and  with  the  universal 
courtesy  of  the  men.  I  am  struck  with  the  fondness  of 
the  French  for  pets,  and  their  kindness  to  them.  Some 
Frenchman  (I  forget  who)  has  remarked  this,  and  con 
trasted  it  with  their  savage  cruelty  towards  their  own 
race.  I  think,  nevertheless,  that  it  indicates  a  real  gen 
tleness  of  disposition.  The  little  woman  at  the  kiosque 
where  I  buy  my  newspapers  asked  me  at  once  (as  does 
everybody  else)  after  John  Holmes.  (She  had  a  tame 
sparrow  he  used  to  bring  cake  to.)  "  Ah !"  exclaimed 
she,  "  qu'il  etait  bon  !  Tout  bon  !  Ce  riest  que  les  bons 
qui  aiment  les  animaux  !  Et  ce  monsieur,  comment  il 
les  aimait  /"  .  .  . 


200  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1877 

TO   GEORGE   PUTNAM 

Hotel  de  Paris,  Madrid, 
Thursday,  Aug.  16,  1877. 

.  .  .  We  are  obliged  to  go  about  somewhat  in  the  heat 
of  the  day  house-hunting.  We  can't  go  in  a  cab  like 
ordinary  mortals,  but  must  have  coachman  and  footman 
in  livery,  with  their  coats  folded  over  the  coach-box  in 
a  cascade  of  brass  buttons.  The  first  day  it  rather 
amused  me,  but  yesterday  the  whole  thing  revealed  it 
self  to  me  as  a  tremendous  bore — but  essential  to  the 
situation.  Tu  Vas  voulu,  Georges  Dandin !  There  are 
moments  when  I  feel  that  I  have  sold  my  soul  to  the 
D — 1.  I  am  writing  post-haste  now  because  this  leath 
ern  inconveniency  will  be  at  the  door  in  half  an  hour, 
and  I  must  find  work  for  it  or —  . 


TO   MRS.  EDWARD   BURNETT 

Legacion  de  los  Estados  Unidos 

de  America  en  Espana.  Aug.  24,  1877. 

.  .  .  We  arrived  here  on  Tuesday,  the  I4th,  and  on 
Friday,  the  i/th,  I  started  with  Mr.  Adee  (the  late 
charge-d'affaires  here)  for  La  Granja.  This  is  a  sum 
mer  palace  of  the  king,  about  fifty  miles  from  Madrid, 
among  the  mountains.  You  go  about  half  the  distance 
(to  Villalba)  by  rail,  and  there  we  found  awaiting  us  the 
private  travelling-carriage  of  the  prime  minister,  which 
had  been  very  courteously  put  at  our  disposal.  Our 
journey  was  by  night  and  over  the  mountains,  the  great 
est  height  reached  by  the  road  being  about  that  of  Mt. 
Washington.  Eight  mules  with  red  plumes  and  other 


1877]  TO    MRS.   EDWARD    BURNETT  2OI 

gorgeous  trappings  formed  our  team.     A  guardia  civil, 
with  three-cornered  hat,  white    cross -belts,  and   rifle, 
mounted  the   rumble,  and   with   a   cracking  of   whips 
quite   as  noisy   as  a  skirmish  of  revolvers  in  Virginia 
City,  and  much  shouting,  away  we  pelted.     After  cross 
ing  the  pass  and  beginning  to  go  down-hill  the  road  was 
very  picturesque,  through  a  great  forest  of  heavy-nee 
dled  pines  whose  boughs,  lighted  up  by  our  lamps,  were 
like  heavy  heaps  of  smoke  in  a  still  air.     We  reached 
La  Granja  at  midnight,  beating  the  diligence  by  more 
than   an  hour.     Our  rooms  at  the  only  inn  had  been 
engaged  by  telegraph,  so  we  supped  and  to  bed.     The 
next  morning  the  second  Introducer   of  Ambassadors 
(the  first  was  at  the  sea-shore)  came  to  make  arrange 
ments  for  my  official  reception  and   Mr.  Adee's  (late 
Charge)  audience  of  leave.     The  introducer  was  in  a 
great  stew  (for  he  had  never  tried  his  hand  before),  and 
made  us  at  least  six  visits,  to  repeat  the  same  thing  in 
the  course  of  the  forenoon.     At  ten  minutes  before  two 
a  couple  of  royal  coaches  arrived,  the  first  for  Mr.  Adee 
and   the    second   (more   gorgeous)   for   me.      Mounted 
guards,  with  three-cornered  hats  and  jack-boots,  looking 
like  the  pictures  of  Dumas  p'eres  mousquetaires,  rode  on 
each  side   in  files.     The   introducer,  blazing  with  gold 
and  orders,  sat  on  my  right,  and  we  started  at  a  foot 
pace  for  the  palace,  about  a  hundred  yards  away.     The 
troops  and  band  saluted  as  we  passed,  and  alighting,  we 
were  escorted  through  long  suites  of  rooms  to  the  royal 
presence.     There  I  found  the  king,  with  as  many  of  the 
court  dignitaries  as  were  at  La  Granja,  in  a  long  semi 
circle,  his  majesty  in  the  middle.     I  made  one  bow  at 


202  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1877 

the  door,  a  second  midway,  and  a  third  on  facing  the 
king.  I  made  my  speech  in  English,  he  answered  me  in 
Spanish,  then  came  forward  and  exchanged  a  few  com 
pliments  with  me  in  French,  and  all  was  over.  Then 
I  was  taken  to  another  wing  of  the  palace  to  pay  my 
respects  to  the  Princess  of  the  Asturias,  the  king's  sis 
ter.  Next  morning  (Sunday,  iQth)  we  breakfasted  en 
famille  with  Sefior  Silvela,  Minister  of  State.  At  two 
the  Duke  of  Montpensier  (just  arrived)  held  a  reception 
in  my  honor.  All  the  diplomats  at  La  Granja  sat  in  a 
circle.  At  the  end  of  the  room  farthest  from  the  door 
sat  the  duke  and  duchess,  with  an  empty  chair  between 
them  to  which  I  was  conducted.  After  five  minutes  of 
infantile  conversation  the  duke  rose  and  the  thing  was 
over.  At  five  some  of  the  grandes  eaux  in  the  garden 
were  played  for  Uncle  Sam.  It  was  a  pretty  and  pict 
uresque  sight.  The  princesses  and  their  ladies  walked  in 
front  abreast,  followed  by  the  king,  his  household,  and 
foreign  ministers.  I  was  beckoned  to  the  king's  side,  and 
he  talked  with  me  all  the  way — even  quoting  one  of  my 
own  verses.  He  had  been  crammed,  of  course,  before 
hand.  The  waters  were  very  pretty,  and  the  garden,  set 
as  it  is  in  a  ring  of  mountains,  far  finer  than  Versailles. 
At  eight  o'clock  dinner  at  the  palace,  where  I  sat  on 
the  left  of  the  Princess  of  Asturias,  the  Duke  of  Mont 
pensier  being  on  her  right,  and  the  king  opposite.  The 
king,  by  the  way,  is  smallish  (he  is  not  nineteen),  but 
has  a  great  deal  of  presence,  is  very  intelligent  and  good- 
looking.  So  young  a  monarch  in  so  difficult  a  position 
interests  me.  The  same  night,  at  two  o'clock,  we  started 
for  Madrid.  . 


1877]  TO    H.   W.   LONGFELLOW  203 

TO    H.  W.  LONGFELLOW 

Madrid,  Nov.  17,  1877. 

Dear  Longfellow, — I  have  just  had  a  visit  from  Sfir. 
D.  Manuel  Tamayo  y  Baus,  secretario  perpetuo  de  la  Real 
Academia  Espaftola,  who  came  to  tell  me  that  they  had 
just  elected  you  a  foreign  member  of  their  venerable 
body.  When  your  name  was  proposed,  he  says,  there 
was  a  contest  as  to  who  should  second  the  nomination, 
" porque  tiene  muchos  apasionados  aqui  el  Senor  Long 
fellow"  and  at  last  the  privilege  was  conceded  to  the 
Excmo.  Sfir.  D.  Juan  Valera,  whose  literary  eminence  is 
no  doubt  known  to  you.  You  may  conceive  how  pleas 
ant  it  was  to  hear  all  this,  and  likewise  your  name  pro 
nounced  perfectly  well  by  a  Spaniard.  Among  all  your 
laurels  this  leaf  will  not  make  much  of  a  show,  but  I  am 
sure  you  will  value  it  for  early  association's  sake,  if  for 
nothing  more.  I  told  the  Sfir.  Secretary  that  one  of  your 
latest  poems  had  recorded  your  delightful  memories  of 
Spain. 

It  made  me  feel  nearer  home  to  talk  about  you,  and 
I  add  that  to  the  many  debts  of  friendship  I  owe  you. 
I  wish  I  could  walk  along  your  front  walk  and  drop  into 
your  study  for  a  minute.  However,  I  shall  find  you 
there  when  I  come  back,  for  you  looked  younger  than 
ever  when  I  bade  you  good-by.  (I  forgot  to  say  that 
your  diploma  will  be  sent  to  me  in  a  few  days,  and  that 
I  shall  take  care  that  you  receive  it  in  good  time.) 

I  have  had  a  good  deal  of  Heimweh  since  I  got  here, 
and  a  fierce  attack  of  gout,  first  in  one  foot  and  then  in 
the  other.  I  am  all  right  again  now,  and  the  November 


204  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1877 

weather  here  (out  of  doors)  is  beyond  any  I  ever  saw. 
It  beats  Italy.  And  such  limpidity  of  sky !  Within 
doors  it  is  chilly  enough,  and  one  needs  a  fire  on  the 
shady  side  of  the  house. 

I  have  made  few  save  diplomatic  and  official  acquaint 
ances  thus  far — very  pleasant — but  I  miss  my  old  friend 
ships.    But  I  don't  know  how  many  times  I  have  said  to 
myself,  "  Tu  Fas  voulu,  Georges  Dandin,  tu  Fas  voulu  /" 
Keep  me  freshly  remembered   in  your  household,  to 
the  whole  of  which  I  send  my  love.     Eheu  ! 
Good-by.     God  bless  and  keep  you  ! 

Your  affectionate  friend, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   GEORGE   PUTNAM 

Madrid,  Dec.  23,  1877. 

Dear  Putnam, —  .  .  .  You  talk  jauntily  of  journeys  to 
Granada  and  the  like !  You've  no  notion  how  much  there 
is  to  do  here.  My  secretary,  who  was  eight  years  in  the 
State  Department,  says  it  is  the  hardest-worked  legation 
of  all.  I  am  getting  used  to  it,  though  I  shall  never  like 
it,  I  think,  for  I  am  too  old  to  find  the  ceremonial  parts 
even  amusing.  They  bore  me.  Then  I  had  seven  weeks 
of  gout  before  I  had  learned  to  take  my  work  easily,  and 
I  worried  myself  abominably  over  it.  'Tis  a  vile  thing 
to  have  a  conscience  !  But  fancy  a  shy  man,  without 
experience,  suddenly  plumped  down  among  a  lot  of 
utter  strangers,  unable  to  speak  their  language  (though 
knowing  more  of  it  than  almost  any  of  them),  and  with 
a  secretary  wholly  ignorant  both  of  Spanish  and  French. 
(An  excellent  fellow,  by  the  way,  whom  I  like  very 


1877]  TO    GEORGE    PUTNAM  205 

much,  and  whose  knowledge  of  official  routine  has  been 
a  great  help.)  And  I  was  to  get  an  indemnity  out  of 
them!  It  was  rather  trying,  and  I  feared  seriously  at 
one  time  while  I  was  shut  up  would  affect  my  brain — 
for  what  with  gout  and  anxiety  I  sometimes  got  no 
sleep  for  three  days  together.  However,  the  gout  let  go 
its  hold  of  my  right  foot  just  long  enough  for  me  to 
hobble  with  a  cane  and  finish  my  indemnity  job,  and 
then  went  over  into  my  left  and  pulled  me  down  again. 

From  the  first,  however,  I  insisted  on  transacting  all 
my  business  with  the  Secretary  of  State  in  Spanish,  and 
now  I  get  along  very  well,  going  to  an  interview  with 
him  quite  at  my  ease.  The  offices  of  the  legation  are  a 
mile  from  my  house,  and  I  have  been  there  every  day 
during  office  hours  except  when  I  was  jugged  with  the 
gout.  I  hope  to  see  Granada  in  the  spring. 

Next  month  we  shall  have  prodigious  doings  with  the 
king's  wedding — such  as  could  not  be  seen  anywhere 
else,  I  fancy,  in  these  days — for  they  purposely  keep  up 
or  restore  old  fashions  here,  and  have  still  a  touch  of  the 
East  in  them  so  far  as  a  liking  for  pomp  goes.  I  like 
the  Spaniards  very  well  so  far  as  I  know  them,  and  have 
an  instinctive  sympathy  with  their  want  of  aptitude  for 
business.  My  duties  bring  me  into  not  the  most  agree 
able  relation  with  them,  for  I  am  generally  obliged  to 
play  the  dun,  and  sometimes  for  claims  in  whose  justice 
I  have  not  the  most  entire  confidence.  Even  with  the 
best  will  in  the  world,  Spain  finds  it  very  hard  to  raise 
money.  Fancy  how  we  should  have  felt  if  a  lot  of 
South  Carolinians  during  our  Civil  War  could  have  got 
themselves  naturalized  in  Spain,  and  then  (not  without 


206  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1878 

suspicion  of  having  given  aid  and  comfort  to  the  enemy) 
should  have  brought  in  claims  for  damage  to  their  es 
tates  by  the  Union  Army !  I  think  they  would  have 
had  to  wait  awhile  !  . 


TO   THE   SAME 

Madrid,  Jan.  28,  1878. 

.  .  .  We  are  just  getting  done  with  the  festivals  in 
cident  to  the  king's  marriage,  to  the  great  relief  of  every 
body  concerned.  The  display,  in  certain  respects,  has 
been  such  as  could  be  seen  nowhere  out  of  Spain,  but 
the  fatigue  and  row  have  been  almost  unendurable.  I 
had  just  had  two  more  of  those  dreadful  attacks  in  the 
stomach  to  which  I  have  been  liable  for  the  last  few 
years,  one  on  Tuesday,  and  a  second  still  worse  on  Sat 
urday — so  bad,  indeed,  that  I  really  thought  something 
was  going  to  happen  that  would  drive  the  legation  to 
black  wax.  Ether  was  of  no  avail,  but  on  Sunday  my 
feet  began  to  swell  and  the  stomach  was  relieved.  I 
was  forced  to  keep  my  bed  for  ten  days.  I  am  now 
all  right  again,  except  that  I  have  to  wear  cloth  shoes 
and  cannot  do  any  walking.  But  I  took  such  care  that 
I  was  able  to  show  myself  at  the  more  important  cere 
monies.  I  never  saw  a  crowd  before,  and  one  night,  qn 
my  way  to  a  reception  at  the  prime  minister's,  I  was 
nearly  mobbed  (that  is,  my  carnage  was),  and  so  were 
several  other  foreign  ministers.  We  were  obliged  to  go 
round  by  a  back  street — the  mob  being  furious,  and  I 
don't  blame  them. 

The  most  interesting  part  of  the  ceremonies,  on  the 


1878]  TO    MISS    GRACE    NORTON  207 

whole,  was  the  dances  of  peasants  from  the  different 
provinces  of  Spain  before  the  king  yesterday  morning. 
It  took  place  in  the  plaza  de  armas  before  the  palace, 
and  afterwards  they  were  all  brought  up  and  ranged  in 
a  row  for  our  inspection.  The  costumes  were  marvel 
lous,  and  we  could  never  have  otherwise  had  such  a 
chance  to  see  so  many  and  so  good.  In  the  evening 
the  king  dined  the  diplomatic  body,  and  afterwards 
held  a  grand  reception.  The  uniforms  (there  are  six 
special  embassies  here  with  very  long  tails)  and  dia 
monds  were  very  brilliant.  But  to  me,  I  confess,  it  is 
all  vanity  and  vexation  of  spirit.  I  like  America  better 
every  day.  .  .  . 


TO   MISS   GRACE   NORTON 

Madrid,  March  7,  1878. 

...  I  don't  care  where  the  notion  of  immortality 
came  from.  If  it  sprang  out  of  a  controlling  necessity 
of  our  nature,  some  instinct  of  self-protection  and  pres 
ervation,  like  the  color  of  some  of  Darwin's  butterflies, 
at  any  rate  it  is  there  and  as  real  as  that,  and  I  mean 
to  hold  it  fast.  Suppose  we  don't  know,  how  much  do 
we  know  after  all?  There  are  times  when  one  doubts 
his  own  identity,  even  his  own  material  entity,  even 
the  solidity  of  the  very  earth  on  which  he  walks.  One 
night,  the  last  time  I  was  ill,  I  lost  all  consciousness  of 
my  flesh.  I  was  dispersed  through  space  in  some  in 
conceivable  fashion,  and  mixed  with  the  Milky  Way. 
It  was  with  great  labor  that  I  gathered  myself  again 
and  brought  myself  within  compatible  limits,  or  so  it 


208  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1878 

seemed;  and  yet  the  very  fact  that  I  had  a  confused 
consciousness  all  the  while  of  the  Milky  Way  as  some 
thing  to  be  mingled  with  proved  that  /  was  there  as 
much  an  individual  as  ever.  .  .  . 

TO   JOHN  W.  FIELD 

7  Cuesta  de  Sto.  Domingo, 
March  14,  1878. 

.  .  .  Thanks,  too,  for  the  Republique  Franqaise.  The 
article  amused  me.  Devotion  to  money  quotha !  The 
next  minute  these  Johnny  Crapauds  will  turn  round 
and  say,  "  Was  there  ever  anything  like  us?  See  how 
we  paid  the  German  indemnity,  and  all  out  of  our  old 
stockings — the  savings  of  years."  The  donkeys  !  You 
can  raise  more  money  for  public  purposes  by  subscrip 
tion  in  a  Boston  week  than  in  a  French  twelvemonth. 
That's  not  the  weak  point  of  democracy,  whatever  else 
may  be.  And  in  Gambetta's  paper,  too  !  What  has  been 
the  strength  of  his  Jewish  ancestors  and  what  is  the 
strength  of  his  Jewish  cousins,  I  should  like  to  know! 
That  they  could  always  supply  you  or  me  with  an  ac 
commodation  at  heavy  interest.  Where  would  a  Jew 
be  among  a  society  of  primitive  men  without  pockets, 
and  therefore  a  fortiori  without  a  hole  in  them?  .  .  . 

TO   GEORGE   PUTNAM 

Madrid,  March  16,  1878. 

.  .  .  What  I  meant  by  my  not  blaming  the  crowd 
that  night  was  that  the  whole  street  from  one  end  to 
t'other  was  so  crammed  with  people  that  a  carriage 
passing  through  really  endangered  life  or  limb.  I  in- 


1878]  TO    H.   W.  LONGFELLOW  209 

tended  no  communistic  sentiment,  but,  though  I  am 
one  of  those  who  go  in  chariots  for  the  nonce,  I  con 
fess  that  my  sympathies  are  very  much  with  those  who 
don't.  Communism  seems  to  have  migrated  to  your 
side  of  the  water  just  now.  But  I  confess  I  feel  no 
great  alarm ;  for  if  history  has  taught  us  any  other  les 
son  than  that  nobody  ever  profits  by  its  teachings,  it 
is  that  property  is  always  too  much  for  communism  in 
the  long  run.  Even  despite  the  Silver  Bill,  I  continue 
to  think  pretty  well  of  my  country,  God  be  praised !  .  .  . 


TO   H.  W.  LONGFELLOW 

Madrid,  March  16,  1878. 

Dear  Longfellow, — I  meant  to  have  sent  the  diploma 
by  Field,  but  as  it  was  locked  up  in  our  safe  at  the  Le 
gation  (I  don't  live  there),  I  forgot  it.  I  sent  it  yester 
day  to  Paris  by  Mr.  Dabney,  our  consul  at  the  Canaries, 
who  will  deliver  it  to  Ernest,  and  he  will  soon  find  a 
safe  hand  by  whom  to  send  it  home.  I  am  charmed 
with  your  simple  Old  Cambridge  notion  of  our  despatch- 
bags.  God  knows  we  have  despatches  enough  to  write, 
but  we  have  only  one  bag,  which  we  use  only  when  we 
have  reason  to  send  a  special  courier  to  London,  and 
the  last  one  we  sent  left  it  behind  him,  so  that  we  are 
bagless  as  Judas  when  he  hanged  himself  (Old  Play).  I 
couldn't  send  the  diploma,  accordingly,  with  our  regular 
despatches  without  folding  it,  which  would  have  disfig 
ured  it  abominably ;  and  meanwhile  you  are  as  much  an 
academician  as  if  you  had  it,  though  I  hope  still  young 
enough  to  wish  to  hold  it  in  your  own  hand.  By  the 
II.— 14 


210  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1878 

way,  the  Acadcmicos  de  Nuniero  are  entitled  to  wear  a 
gorgeous  decoration  round  the  neck.  If  it  had  been 
that  I  shouldn't  wonder  at  your  feeling  a  little  anxious, 
for  if  I  hadn't  stolen  it  I  should  have  wondered,  like 
dive,  at  my  own  moderation. 

Thank  you  for  the  poem,  which  Mrs.  Lowell  and  I  en 
joyed  together,  and  is  so  characteristic  "  that  every  line 
doth  almost  read  your  name."  I  should  have  known  it 
everywhere,  and  liked  it  very  much — all  the  more  that  it 
convinced  me  you  were  as  young  as  ever  and  with  no 
abatement  of  natural  force. 

The  forsythia  is  already  in  bloom  here,  and  the  almond- 
trees  were  three  weeks  ago.  The  leaves  are  peeping. 
And  yet  to-day  it  is  really  cold  again,  and  I  suppose 
there  was  a  fall  of  snow  on  the  Guadarramas  last  night, 
for  it  was  tumultuous  with  wind.  It  is  a  queer  climate 
— the  loveliest  I  ever  saw — and  yet  it  sticks  you  from 
behind  corners,  as  we  used  to  think  Spaniards  employed 
all  their  time  in  doing.  After  all,  Cambridge  is  best. 

My  love  and  best  wishes  on  your  latest  birthday  (I 
was  going  to  write  "  last,"  and  superstitiously  refrained 
my  pen).  I  won't  read  the  milestone,  but  I  am  sure  it 
is  on  a  road  that  leads  to  something  better.  Two  coun 
trymen  interrupt  me,  and  I  end  with  love  from  your 

Affectionate 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 
TO   F.  J.  CHILD 

Madrid,  Palm  Sunday,  April  14,  1878. 
Dear  Ciarli,* — I  have  noticed  that  Class  and  Phi  Beta 

*  "  Ciarli "  was  the  attempt  of  an  old  Italian  beggar  at  Pro 
fessor  Child's  name. 


1878]  TO    F.  J.  CHILD  211 

poems  almost  always  begin  with  an  "  as  " — at  any  rate, 
they  used  to  in  my  time,  before  a  certain  Boylston  pro 
fessor  took  'em  in  hand.  E.  g., 

As  the  last  splendors  of  expiring  day 

Round  Stoughton's  chimneys  cast  a  lingering  ray, 

And  sometimes  there  was  a  whole  flight  of  as-es  lead 
ing  up  to  the  landing  of  a  final  so,  where  one  could  take 
breath  and  reflect  on  what  he  had  gone  through.  Now 
you  will  be  sure  that  I  didn't  mean  to  begin  my  letter 
thus,  but  it  was  put  into  my  head  by  the  earthquake 
you  have  been  making  in  Baltimore,  the  wave  from 
which  rolled  all  the  way  across  the  ocean  and  splashed 
audibly  on  these  distant  shores,  and  as  all  my  associa 
tions  are  with  dear  Old  Cambridge,  why  naturally  I  found 
myself  murmuring, 

As,  when  the  Earthquake  stomps  his  angry  foot, 
A  thousand  leagues  the  frightened  billows  scoot, 
So  when  my  Ciarli,  etc. 

I  was  delighted  to  hear  of  it,  though  it  was  just  what  I 
expected,  for  didn't  my  little  bark  attendant  sail  more 
than  a  year  ago  ?  It  gave  me  a  touch  of  homesickness 
too,  for  I  look  back  on  that  month  as  one  of  the  pleas- 
antest  of  my  life,  and  here  I  am  not  as  who  should  say 
altogether  and  precisely  happy.  Yet  I  hope  to  get 
something  out  of  it  that  will  tell  by  and  by.  The  cere 
monial,  of  which  there  is  plenty,  of  course  is  naught, 
and  I  make  acquaintance  so  slowly  that  I  hardly  know 
anybody  (except  officially)  even  yet,  but  I  have  at  last 
got  hold  of  an  intelligent  bookseller,  and  am  beginning 


212  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1878 

to  get  a  few  books  about  me.  .  .  .  Gayangos  has  some 
exquisite  old  books,  by  the  way — a  Gongora,  among 
others,  that  would  have  tempted  me  to  ruin  had  it  been 
for  sale.  It  is  a  manuscript  on  vellum,  made  as  a  pres 
ent  to  the  Conde-duque  de  Olivares  when  he  was  in  the 
flush  of  his  privanza.  Each  poem  is  dated  on  the  mar 
gin,  and  in  the  index  the  copyist  marks  certain  ones  as 
falsely  attributed  to  Gongora,  and  says  the  poet  told 
him  so  himself.  It  is  exquisitely  done,  like  that  little 
Greek  book  in  Mr.  Sibley's  show-case — Anacreon,  isn't 
it? 

I  have  just  succeeded  in  getting  a  copy  of  the  series 
printed  for  the  Bibliofilos  Espanoles>  which  is  very  hard 
to  come  at,  and  cost  me  $105  in  paper.  It  contains  one 
or  two  things  worth  having — but  I  bought  mainly  with 
a  view  to  the  College  Library  one  of  these  days.  I 
have  also  bought  the  photolithographie  of  Cuesta's  edi- 
tio  princeps  of  "Don  Quixote"  for  the  sake  of  Hartzen- 
busch's  notes,  which,  by  the  way,  show  a  singular  dul- 
ness  of  perception,  and  correct  Cervantes  in  a  way  that 
makes  me  swear.  But  they  are  worth  having,  as  show 
ing  the  emendations  that  have  been  made  or  proposed, 
the  when  and  by  whom.  I  have,  too,  the  Burgos  1 593  Cro- 
nica  of  the  Cid,  a  very  fair  copy,  and  Damas-Hinard's 
edition  of  the  Poem.  .  .  . 

I  fear  what  you  say  of  my  being  thrown  away  here 
may  turn  out  true.  There  is  a  great  deal  to  do,  and  of 
a  kind  for  which  I  cannot  get  up  a  very  sin'cere  interest 
— claims  and  customs  duties,  and  even,  God  save  the 
mark !  Brandreth's  pills.  I  try  to  do  my  duty,  but  feel 
sorely  the  responsibility  to  people  three  thousand  miles 


1878]  TO    C.  E.  NORTON  213 

away,  who  know  not  Joseph  and  probably  think  him  un 
practical.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  We  have  seen  Seville,  Cordova,  Granada,  and 
Toledo,  each  excellent  in  itself  and  Toledo  queer,  even 
after  Italy  and  Sicily.  But  the  shrinkage  is  frightful. 
Toledo  especially  is  full  of  ruin,  and,  what  is  worse,  of 
indifference  to  ruin.  Yet 'there  is  something  oriental 
in  my  own  nature  which  sympathizes  with  this  "  let  her 
slide  "  temper  of  the  hidalgos.  They  go  through  all  the 
forms  of  business  as  they  do  of  religion,  without  any 
reference  to  the  thing  itself,  just  as  they  offer  you  their 
house  (dating  their  notes  to  you  de  SU  casd]  and  every 
thing  in  it.  But  they  are  very  friendly,  and  willing  to 
be  helpful  where  they  can.  I  love  the  jauds  for  a'  that. 
They  are  unenterprising  and  unchangeable.  The  latest 
accounts  of  them  are  just  like  the  earliest,  and  they  have 
a  firm  faith  in  Dr.  Mariana — he  will  cure  everything,  or, 
if  he  can't,  it  doesn't  signify.  In  short,  there  is  a  flavor 
of  Old  Cambridge  about  'em,  as  O.  C.  used  to  be  when 
I  was  young  and  the  world  worth  having.  .  .  . 

Good-by,  dear  old  fellow. 

Your  affectionate 

J.  R.  L. 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

7  Cuesta  de  Sto.  Domingo,  2°,  izqa. 

(second  floor,  left-hand  door), 

April  15,  1878. 

...  I  write  now  because  I  am  going  away  for  two 
months  and  haven't  time  to  write  at  all.  Whither  we 
shall  go  I  hardly  can  tell.  I  have  a  furlough  of  sixty 


214  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1878 

days,  and  am  going  first  into  southern  France  to  see 
Toulouse  and  Carcassonne,  which  I  never  saw.  Then  I 
think  we  shall  go  to  Genoa  and  Pisa,  staying  some  lit 
tle  time,  perhaps,  in  the  vituperio  delle  genti.  Then  we 
may  go  on  to  Naples,  take  the  steamer  there,  and  be 
carried  round  to  Athens.  I  am  obliged  to  take  my  va 
cation  now,  to  bring  it  within  the  year.  My  heart  is  as 
heavy  as  dough,  so  does  the  thought  of  travel  always 
depress  me.  I  don't  know  how  I  can  come  to  grief — 
but  am  sure  I  shall  always. 

I  believe  I  have  performed  my  functions  here  tolera 
bly  well,  except  those  of  society,  and  even  those  I  have 
not  wholly  neglected.  I  have  been  out  a  great  deal — 
for  me.  The  hours  here  are  frightfully  late.  They  go 
to  a  reception  after  the  opera,  so  that  half-past  n  is 
early.  At  a  dance  they  are  more  punctual,  and  I  have 
even  known  them  to  begin  at  10  —  but  they  keep  it  up 
till  2  or  3.  They  seem  childishly  fond  of  dancing.  But 
there  is  no  such  thing  as  conversation,  nor  any  chance 
for  it.  As  for  scholarship,  there  is,  I  should  say,  very 
little  of  it,  in  the  accurate  German  sense.  I  don't  think 
they  value  it  any  more  than  they  do  time,  of  which 
they  always  have  more  on  their  hands  than  they  know 
what  to  do  with,  and  therefore  vastly  less  than  they 
want. 

My  own  time  has  been  very  much  broken  up  by  my 
not  being  well.  I  think  I  told  you  that  I  have  had 
three  fits  of  gout  since  I  came,  and  I  worry  over  my 
duties.  .  .  . 

But  I  am  learning  something,  I  hope.  I  get  along 
very  well  in  Spanish  now,  and  when  I  come  back  am 


1878]  TO    C.  E.  NORTON  215 

going  to  fasten  an  abbe  to  my  skirts,  so  as  to  be  forced 
into  talking.  I  have  tried  in  vain  to  find  out  for  you 
whether  there  are  any  letters  of  Velasquez  or  not. 
What  they  call  their  archives  have  never  been  sorted. 
They  don't  know  what  they  have.  And  then  Siman- 
cas  is  ever  so  far  away,  and  Government  won't  consent 
to  have  their  documents  brought  to  Madrid — nor  even 
to  Valladolid.  There  are  local  jealousies  in  the  way — 
stronger  even  than  ours.  But  next  winter,  when  I  am 
more  familiar  with  things  and  men,  I  hope  to  do  some 
thing.  There  are  no  scientific  booksellers — not  one — 
and  I  can't  even  procure  what  has  been  actually  print 
ed  about  Cervantes.  I  bought  the  other  day  the  photo 
lithographic  copy  of  the  first  edition  of  "  Don  Quixote," 
for  the  sake,  mainly,  of  Hartzenbusch's  notes.  But  they 
are  mostly  worthless — of  value  mainly  as  collation.  He 
doesn't  understand  his  author  in  the  least,  whose  de 
lightfully  haphazard  style  is  too  much  for  him.  I  shall, 
however,  bring  home  some  books  you  will  like  to  see.  I 
buy  mainly  with  a  view  to  the  College  Library,  whither 
they  will  go  when  I  am  in  Mount  Auburn,  with  so  much 
undone  that  I  might  have  done.  I  hope  my  grandsons 
will  have  some  of  the  method  I  have  always  lacked. 

.  .  .  My  little  world  is  getting  smaller  and  smaller, 
and  I  am  not  reconciled.  Still,  I  long  for  the  Charles 
and  the  meadows,  and  walk  between  Elmwood  and 
Shady  Hill  constantly.  I  feel  much  older  in  body  and 
mind — I  can't  quite  say  why  or  how,  but  I  feel  it.  I 
cling  to  what  is  left  all  the  more  closely.  .  .  . 

Always  your  loving 

J.  R.  L. 


2l6  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1878 

TO   MRS.  E.  BURNETT 

Aries,  April  27,  1878. 

.  .  .  Mamma  has  told  you  that  we  were  to  go  off  on  a 
leave  of  absence,  and  we  have  now  been  on  our  travels 
eleven  days.  Thus  far  we  have  enjoyed  it  very  much. 
Our  itinerary  has  been :  from  Madrid  to  Tarbes,  then 
Toulouse,  then  Carcassonne,  then  Nismes,  then  Avi 
gnon,  and  then  hither.  We  have  thus  had  a  pretty 
good  glimpse  of  the  south  of  France,  and  very  lovely 
it  is.  At  Toulouse  and  Carcassonne  I  had  never  been 
before,  and  Toulouse,  I  confess,  disappointed  me, 
though  there  was  an  interesting  old  church  (St.  Ser- 
nin)  and  an  old  house  worth  seeing.  But  Carcassonne 
is  wonderful,  a  fortified  place  of  the  twelfth  and  thir 
teenth  centuries,  as  perfect  as  if  it  had  been  kept  in  a 
museum.  As  you  look  across  the  river  at  it  from  the 
new  town  (six  hundred  years  old)  it  seems  like  an  illu 
mination  out  of  some  old  copy  of  Froissart.  I  posi 
tively  thought  I  was  dreaming  after  looking  at  it  for 
long  enough  to  forget  the  modernness  about  me.  Its 
general  aspect  is  of  the  dates  I  have  given,  but  parts 
are  Roman,  parts  Visigothic,  and  parts  Saracenic.  The 
past  is  ensconced  there  as  in  a  virgin  fortress,  and  will 
hold  out  forever. 

From  Nismes  we  drove  out  about  twelve  miles  to 
the  Pont  du  Card.  It  rained  all  the  way  out ;  but  just 
as  we  got  there  it  cleared,  and  all  the  thickets  (in  every 
one  a  nightingale)  were  rainbowed  and  diamonded  by 
the  sun.  The  Pont  is  a  Roman  aqueduct,  which  crosses 
the  deep  valley  of  a  pretty  river  on  three  rows  of  arches, 


1878]  TO    MRS.   E.  BURNETT  217 

one  above  another.  It  is  really  noble,  and  these  gigan 
tic  bones  of  Rome  always  touch  and  impress  me  more 
the  farther  away  they  are  from  the  mother  city.  Then 
we  had  some  bread  and  sausages  and  wine  in  a  little  ar 
bor,  served  by  a  merry  old  man,  who,  when  I  told  him 
I  had  been  there  twenty-six  years  before,  challenged  me 
to  come  back  as  many  hence ;  "  but,"  said  he,  touching 
his  white  whiskers,  and  with  a  sly  glance  at  mine,  "  les 
blancs  ne  se  refont  jamais  bruns"  Jacques  (our  ser 
vant)  resented  this,  as  in  duty  bound,  and  insisted  that 
monsieur  wasn't  in  the  least  white  yet,  at  which  the 
heartless  old  boy  only  laughed,  and  I  joined  him  in 
order  to  put  a  good  face  on  the  matter.  I  compli 
mented  him  on  his  daughter,  who  was  making  a  pretty 
nosegay  for  mamma.  "Ah"  said  he,  "je  lui  legue  les 
bouteilles  vides  et  les  bouchons,  mais  avec  de  la  sante  et  la 
bonne  volonte  on  arrive"  So  we  parted,  agreeing  to 
meet  in  1904!  Before  we  were  half  way  home  (if  I 
may  call  a  hotel  so)  it  began  to  rain  again.  So  you  see 
what  luck  we  had. 

From  Avignon  we  drove  twenty  miles  to  Vaucluse 
(which  I  had  not  visited  before),  and  found  it  worthy 
of  all  Petrarca  had  said  of  it.  The  onde  are  as  chiare 
23\&  fresche  as  ever,  and  the  fountain  one  of  the  most 
marvellous  I  ever  saw.  You  follow  a  ravine  deeply  hol 
lowed  in  the  soft  rock  for  about  half  a  mile,  and  there, 
at  the  foot  of  a  huge  precipice,  is  the  basin,  which  feeds 
a  considerable  stream.  A  clear,  calm  pool.  You  see  no 
bubbling  of  springs  from  below,  no  fissure  in  the  rock, 
and  perceive  no  motion  in  the  water  except  where  it  es 
capes  towards  the  valley.  It  is  lined  with  factories  now, 


2l8  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1878 

and  French  visitors  have  daubed  the  rocks  with  their 
vulgar  names  in  black  paint  in  every  direction.  You 
can't  find  a  fragment  to  sit  on  without  feeling  discom 
forted  by  a  guilty  sense  of  complicity  in  hiding  half  a 
dozen  of  these  profanations  from  the  angry  glare  of  the 
sun.  We  might  have  lunched  at  any  one  of  three  cafes 
— one  of  which  invites  you  with  the  advertisement 
painted  on  its  front  that  here  Petrarch  wrote  his  i2Qth 
sonnet !  It  is  the  Cafe  de  Petrarque  et  Laure.  "  Great 
Caesar  dead  and  turned  to  clay,"  etc.  .  .  . 

I  don't  care  to  say  how  soft  my  heart  gets  when  I 
think  of  you  all  at  home.     I  fancy  I  am  growing  old.  .  .  . 


TO   THE   SAME 

Athens,  May  17,  1878. 

.  .  .  Here  we  are  in  Athens,  and  just  come  in  from 
a  visit  to  the  Acropolis,  which  has  served  to  balance  our 
first  impressions,  which  were  rather  depressing.  For  to 
drive  from  the  Piraeus  through  a  dreary  country,  in  a 
cloud  of  dust,  drawn  by  two  wretched  beasts  that  ought 
to  have  been  in  their  graves  long  ago,  and  unable  to 
stop  the  driver  from  lashing  because  we  could  speak  no 
tongue  he  could  understand,  and  then  to  enter  a  shabby 
little  modern  town,  was  by  no  means  inspiriting.  I  was 
for  turning  about  and  going  straight  back  again,  but  am 
getting  wonted  by  degrees,  and  I  dare  say  shall  come 
to  like  it  after  a  while.  I  was  stupid  enough  to  be 
amused  last  night  at  hearing  the  boys  crying  the  news 
papers  in  Greek — as  if  they  could  do  it  in  anything  else 
— and  fancied  I  caught  some  cadences  of  the  tragic  cho- 


1878]  TO    C.   E.   NORTON  219 

rus  in  the  bray  of  a  donkey,  the  only  "  Attic  warbler  " 
that  I  have  heard  "  pour  his  throat." 

.  .  .  Our  first  sight  of  Greece  was  the  shores  of  the 
Morea,  and  anything  more  sterile  and  dreary  I  never 
saw.  I  thought  some  parts  of  our  New  England  coast 
dreary  enough,  but  this  is  even  grimmer.  We  had  for 
fellow-passenger  a  pretty  little  land-bird,  which  found 
the  land  inviting  in  spite  of  all,  and  flew  away  when  he 
thought  we  were  near  enough.  I  couldn't  help  thinking 
how  much  better  off  he  would  be  than  we,  having  a  com 
mand  of  the  language  wherever  he  lighted.  The  first 
natives  we  saw  were  two  gulls  (an  imperishable  race), 
probably  much  less  degenerate  from  their  ancestors  than 
the  men  who  now  inhabit  the  country. 

The  position  of  the  Parthenon,  by  the  way,  is  incom 
parable,  and,  as  mamma  said,  the  general  sadness  of  the 
landscape  was  in  harmony  with  its  ruin.  It  is  the  very 
abomination  of  desolation,  and  yet  there  is  nothing  that 
is  not  noble  in  its  decay.  The  view  seaward  is  magnifi 
cent.  I  suppose  the  bird  of  Pallas  haunts  the  temple  still 
by  nights,  and  hoots  sadly  for  her  lost  mistress.  There 
was  a  strange  sensation  in  looking  at  the  blocks  which 
Pericles  had  probably  watched  as  they  were  swung  into 
their  places,  and  in  walking  over  the  marble  floor  his 
sandals  had  touched.  .  .  . 


TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Athens,  May  21,  1878. 

.  .  .  On  the  day  of  my  arrival  I  was  profoundly  de 
pressed,  everything  looked  so  mean — the  unpaved  and 


220  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1878 

unsidewalked  streets,  the  Western  coat  and  trousers, 
and  what  costumes  there  were  so  filthy.  And  yet  I  was 
in  luck,  for  the  town  is  full  of  Thessalian  insurgents,  so 
that  I  see  more  that  is  characteristic  than  I  had  a  right 
to  expect.  They  are  dreadful  ruffians  to  all  appear 
ance,  and  reminded  me  of  Macaulay's  Highlanders.  In 
consequence  of  them  I  refused  to  go  out  to  Marathon 
with  Jebb,  who  is  here,  and  who,  after  all,  went  and 
came  safely.  But  for  my  official  character  I  should 
have  gone.  I  could  not  afford  the  time  to  be  seques 
tered  (as  we  call  it  in  Spain),  and  the  Minister  of  State 
thought  it  risky.  The  returning  patriots  are  of  a  class 
who  are  quite  indifferent  whether  they  learn  the  time 
of  day  from  a  Moslem  or  Christian  time-piece,  and  to 
whom  money  from  whatever  pocket  is  orthodox. 

In  the  afternoon  of  the  day  of  my  arrival  I  walked 
up  to  the  Acropolis,  and  tuned  my  nerves  and  mind  to 
a  manlier  key.  It  is  noble  in  position  and  sublime  even 
in  ruin.  The  impression  was  all  I  could  wish  —  pro 
found  beyond  expectation  and  without  artificial  stimu 
lus.  You  know  I  prefer  Gothic  to  Grecian  architecture, 
and  yet  (I  cannot  explain  it)  the  Parthenon  was  more 
effective  in  its  place  than  a  shattered  cathedral  would 
have  been.  But  imagination  plays  such  tricks  with  us — 

Madrid,  Aug.  2,  1878. 

I  was  in  the  middle  of  a  reflection,  my  dear  Charles, 
when  in  came  Santiago  to  tell  me  that  the  steamer  for 
Constantinople  would  leave  the  Piraeus  in  three  hours. 
It  was  my  only  chance,  and  I  decided  for  going — Athens 
only  half  seen.  But  then,  you  know,  I  have  a  theory 


1878]  TO    C.  E.  NORTON  221 

that  peaches  have  only  one  good  bite  in  'em,  and  that  a 
second  spoils  that.  I  am  glad  we  went.  The  view  of 
Constantinople  as  you  draw  nigh  is  incomparable,  and 
one  sees  at  once  what  an  imperial  eye  Constantine  had. 
Planted  firmly  in  Europe,  it  holds  Asia  subject  with  its 
eye.  The  climate  is  admirable — Eastern  sun  and  West 
ern  rains.  The  harbor  ample  for  all  the  navies  of  the 
world — the  Bear,  if  he  planted  himself  here,  would  get 
wings  and  turn  aquiline.  We  went  as  far  as  the  Black 
Sea  in  the  track  of  the  Argo  and  saw  the  Symplegades, 
very  harmless  -  looking  rocks,  like  certain  women  when 
their  claws  are  sheathed.  The  captain  of  the  French 
steamer  we  came  back  to  Marseilles  in,  who  had  been 
in  all  seas,  told  me  that  in  winter  the  Black  Sea  was 
the  worst  of  all.  Our  four  days  at  Constantinople  were 
nothing  more  nor  less  than  so  many  Arabian  Nights.  I 
couldn't  have  believed  that  so  much  was  left.  Santa 
Sofia  is  very  noble,  really  noble,  and  one  sees  in  it  the 
germ,  if  not  the  pattern,  of  all  Oriental  architecture — 
Cordova,  Granada,  Seville,  nay,  Venice  and  St.  Mark's. 
This  struck  me  very  much. 

The  Turks  are  the  most  dignified-looking  race  I  have 
ever  seen — a  noble  bearing  even  in  defeat  and  even  in 
rags.  Their  exceeding  sobriety  of  life  no  doubt  helps 
this — for  all  their  faces  look  pure — and  perhaps  their 
fatalism.  Do  you  remember  I  prophesied  (against  God- 
kin)  that  they  would  make  a  better  fight  than  was  ex 
pected?  I  think  they  did,  and  that  with  competent 
leaders  they  would  have  beaten  the  Muscovite,  who, 
after  all,  to  my  thinking,  is  a  giant  very  weak  in  the 
knees. 


222  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1878 

I  saw  Layard,  by  the  way,  just  as  he  was  concluding 
the  Cyprus  business,  as  I  found  out  afterwards.  I 
thought  he  seemed  in  tempestuous  spirits,  and  no  won 
der  !  I  am  inclined  to  like  the  Asia  Minor  arrange 
ment  (because  I  wish  digging  to  be  done  there !),  and 
I  think  England  strong  enough  for  the  job.  I  think 
if  Beaconsfield  weren't  a  Jew,  people  would  think  him 
rather  fine.  But  they  can't  get  over  an  hereditary  itch 
to  pull  some  of  his  grinders. 

My  Eastern  peep  has  been  of  service  in  enabling  me 
to  see  how  oriental  Spain  still  is  in  many  ways.  With 
out  the  comparison,  I  couldn't  be  sure  of  it.  ...  I  am 
beginning  to  feel  competent  to  make  some  observations 
on  the  Spaniards,  but  shall  keep  them  till  they  are 
riper.  These  things  have  to  stand  in  solution  a  long 
while  till  the  introduction  of  some  new  element,  we 
scarce  know  when  or  how,  precipitates  out  of  mere 
vagueness  into  distinct  and  hard  crystals  which  can  be 
scientifically  studied  and  assigned.  I  fancy  it  is  other 
wise  with  history,  which  is  not  so  much  "  philosophy 
teaching  by  example"  as  clarified  experience.  It  only 
has  to  stand  on  the  lees  long  enough.  One  apothegm 
I  have  already  engraved  in  brass :  "  The  Spaniard  offers 
you  his  house,  but  never  a  meal  in  it."  I  like  them  and 
find  much  that  is  only  too  congenial  in  their  genius  for 
to-morrow.  I  am  working  now  at  Spanish  as  I  used  to 
work  at  Old  French — that  is,  all  the  time  and  with  all 
my  might.  I  mean  to  know  it  better  than  they  do 
themselves — which  isn't  saying  much.  .  .  . 


1878]  TO    MRS.  EDWARD    BURNETT  223 

TO   MRS.  EDWARD   BURNETT 

Madrid,  July  26,  1878. 

...  I  was  very  far  from  well  and  in  miserable  spirits 
before  my  journey.  I  have  come  back  a  new  man,  and 
have  flung  my  blue  spectacles  into  the  paler  Mediter 
ranean.  I  really  begin  to  find  life  at  last  tolerable  here, 
nay,  to  enjoy  it  after  a  fashion.  .  .  . 

I  am  turned  school-boy  again,  and  have  a  master  over 
me  once  more — a  most  agreeable  man — Don  Hermine- 
gildo  Giner  de  los  Rios,  who  comes  to  me  every  morn 
ing  at  nine  o'clock  for  an  hour.  We  talk  Spanish  to 
gether  (he  doesn't  understand  a  word  of  English),  and 
I  work  hard  at  translation  and  the  like.  I  am  now 
translating  a  story  of  Octave  Feuillet  into  choice  Cas- 
tilian,  and  mean  to  know  Spanish  as  well  as  I  do  Eng 
lish  before  I  have  done  with  it.  This  morning  I  wrote 
a  note  to  one  of  the  papers  here,  in  which  my  teacher 
found  only  a  single  word  to  change.  Wasn't  that  pret 
ty  well  for  a  boy  of  my  standing?  It  was  about  Miss 
Dana's  recollections  (or  records  rather)  of  the  convent 
days  of  our  poor  little  Queen  Mercedes.  Anything 
more  tragic  than  the  circumstances  of  her  death  it 
would  be  hard  to  imagine.  She  was  actually  receiving 
extreme  unction  while  the  guns  were  firing  in  honor 
of  her  eighteenth  birthday,  and  four  days  later  we 
saw  her  dragged  to  her  dreary  tomb  at  the  Escorial, 
followed  by  the  coach  and  its  eight  white  horses  in 
which  she  had  driven  in  triumph  from  the  church  to 
the  palace  on  the  day  of  her  wedding.  The  poor  brutes 
tossed  their  snowy  plumes  as  haughtily  now  as  then. 


224  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1878 

Her  death  is  really  a  great  public  loss.  She  was  amia 
ble,  intelligent,  and  simple  —  not  beautiful,  but  good- 
looking  —  and  was  already  becoming  popular.  Her 
malady  was  not  thought  serious  at  first,  and,  I  fear, 
was  all  along  mistakenly  treated.  .  .  . 


TO   MISS   GRACE   NORTON 

7  Cuesta  de  Sto.  Domingo,  Aug.  n,  1878. 
.  .  .  Madrid  is  the  noisiest  city  I  ever  dwelt  in.  The 
street-cries  are  endless,  and  given  with  a  will  and  with 
such  distortions  of  face  as  must  be  seen  to  be  believed. 
None  are  musical.  One  always  stirs  my  fancy  by  its 
association  with  Aladdin — the  lamparero.  Shall  I  try 
my  luck?  I  think  not,  for  in  his  cry  I  have  the  material 
for  rows  of  palaces,  whereas  if  I  bought  a  lamp  I  might 
rub  in  vain.  The  first  sound  in  the  morning  is  the  tinkle 
of  bells  on  the  necks  of  the  she-asses  that  come  in  to  be 
milked  at  the  customer's  door  for  surety.  I  know  not 
who  the  customers  are,  but  there  must  be  many  if  there 
be  any  truth  in  the  vulgar  belief  that  children  take  after 
their  nurses.  Then  there  is  a  succession  of  blind  play 
ers  on  the  guitar,  on  the  pipe  and  tabor,  and  on  what  I 
suppose  to  be  the  gaita.  They  sometimes  also  sing, 
but  commonly  have  with  them  a  boy  or  girl  who  shrieks 
a  romance.  All  the  tunes  are  the  same  so  far  as  I  can 
make  out — just  as  in  a  school  of  poetry.  Then  the  town 
is  full  of  parrots  and  caged  quails.  I  don't  suppose  we 
are  exceptional,  but  there  are  five  parrots  in  this  house 
and  the  next  together,  all  birds  of  remarkable  talents. 
One  hangs  in  the  court-yard  of  our  house  and  sings, 


1878]  TO   MISS   GRACE   NORTON  225 

shouts,  calls  names,  and  swears  all  day  long.  In  this  same 
patio,  by  the  way,  I  have  heard  songs  issuing  from  the 
servants'  quarters  in  every  floor  and  from  the  grooms  in 
the  court-yard  at  the  same  time.  The  voices  are  seldom 
agreeable  and  the  tunes  always  monotonous.  Indeed 
they  seem  to  have  but  one.  I  can't  catch  much  of  the 
words,  but  the  other  day  I  heard,  "  Yo  soy  el  capitan 
de  la  tropa"  and  presently,  "  Yo  soy  el  duque  de  Osu- 
na"  from  which  I  surmised  a  Lord  of  Burleigh  who  was 
gradually  revealing  himself.  I  was  wrong  in  saying 
that  all  the  street-cries  are  harsh.  There  is  a  girl  who 
passes  every  day  crying  radishes  who  really  makes  a  bit 
of  melody  with  her  Rdbanos !  It  is  seldom  that  one 
does  not  hear  (night  or  day)  a  thrumming  or  a  snatch 
of  nasal  song,  and  I  am  pretty  well  persuaded  that  it 
was  the  Spanish  dominion  which  planted  the  seeds  of 
the  Neapolitan  street-music. 

At  this  season  they  sleep  in  the  day  a  good  deal, 
and  at  night  are  as  lively  as  certain  skipping  insects, 
with  which  many  of  them  are  only  too  familiar.  Far 
from  being  a  grave  people,  they  seem  to  me  a  partic 
ularly  cheerful  one,  and  yet  I  am  struck  with  the  num 
ber  of  deeply -furrowed  faces  one  meets,  the  mark  of 
hereditary  toil.  I  turn  half  communist  when  I  see 
them.  The  porters  especially  stir  an  angry  sympathy 
in  me,  sometimes  old  men  (nay,  often)  tottering  under 
incredible  burthens,  which  they  carry  on  their  backs 
steadied  by  a  cord  passed  round  the  forehead.  Every 
day  I  recall  that  passage  in  Dante  where  he  stoops 
from  sympathy,  like  an  ox  in  the  yoke.  The  traditional 
figures  of  the  genre  painters  one  sees  rarely  now,  and 
II.-iS 


226  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1878 

yet  there  is  no  lack  of  costume.  One  meets  constant 
ly  men  in  the  very  costume  of  Velasquez's  "  Lanzas," 
which  sometimes  has  a  very  odd  effect  on  my  fancy. 
The  reality  makes  a  very  different  impression  from  the 
attempted  illusion  of  the  stage,  and  has  made  me  un 
derstand  better  why  I  don't  care  for  such  pictures  as 
many  of  Meissonier's  and  the  like — clever  as  they  are. 
But  here  is  theme  for  a  dissertation.  I  suppose  that 
in  some  remote  way  the  notion  of  sincerity  has  some 
thing  to  do  with  it,  and  here,  I  suspect,  is  to  be  found 
the  distinction  between  the  reality  of  Dante  and  modern 
realism.  A  great  deal  of  what  is  called  pre-Raphaelite 
on  canvas  and  in  verse  gives  me  the  same  uncomforta 
ble  feeling  of  costume.  You  will  guess  what  I  mean  if 
I  am  not  very  clear.  To  come  back  to  statistics. 

I  never  saw  anything  like  the  fruit  in  Madrid  for 
abundance  and  variety.  The  oranges,  plums,  melons, 
apricots,  and  nectarines  are  the  best  I  ever  saw.  I  have 
sometimes  eaten  finer  melons  of  my  own  growing — but 
my  average  was  never  so  high.  Then  we  have  grapes, 
pomegranates,  pears  (not  nearly  so  fine  as  ours),  apples 
(ordinary),  prickly  pears,  peaches  (tolerable),  medlars. 
What  surprises  me  is  how  long  the  season  is.  We  are 
never  without  something.  Grapes  begin  in  June  and 
last  till  December. 

The  city  of  Madrid  at  first  disappointed  me  greatly 
by  its  modern  look.  I  had  expected  to  find  the  "mise 
en  scene  "  of  Calderon.  But  I  gradually  became  recon 
ciled,  and  now  like  it.  Moreover,  I  begin  to  suspect 
that  I  hadn't  understood  Calderon,  and  that  his  scenery 
is  applicable  to  the  present  city — at  least  in  a  measure. 


1878]  TO    MISS   GRACE   NORTON  227 

The  Prado  with  its  continuations  is  fine,  and  the  Buen 
Retiro  as  agreeable  a  drive  as  I  know — more  agreeable, 
I  add  on  reflection,  than  anything  of  the  kind  I  know 
of  in  any  other  city.  But  then  I  am  bewitched  with 
the  Campina.  To  me  it  is  grander  than  the  Campagna ; 
of  course  I  do  not  count  the  associations.  I  mean  as  a 
thing  to  look  at  and  fall  in  love  with.  The  Guadarra- 
mas  are  quite  as  good  as  or  better  than  the  Alban  moun 
tains,  and  their  color  is  sometimes  so  ethereal  that  they 
seem  visionary  rather  than  real.  The  Campina,  I  admit, 
is  sombre — but  its  variety  and  shift  of  color,  its  vague 
undulations !  At  night,  especially,  it  is  like  the  sea,  and 
even  in  the  day  sometimes.  We  are,  you  know,  twenty- 
five  hundred  feet  above  the  sea,  but  beside  that,  Madrid 
stands  on  hills  more  considerable  than  those  of  Rome 
and  commanding  wider  horizons.  The  climate  thus  far 
has  been  incomparable.  In  our  year  here  we  have  had, 
I  believe,  only  three  days  when  it  rained.  All  blue, 
night  and  day,  and  such  a  blue !  Nothing  so  limpid 
have  I  ever  conceived.  I  should  hate  such  a  climate 
were  I  living  in  the  country.  I  should  sympathize  too 
keenly  with  my  trees,  should  be  always  feeling  the 
drouth  of  their  roots,  and  being  wretched.  But  here  it 
makes  no  odds.  The  trees  are  watered  daily,  and  there 
are  really  beautiful  gardens. 

This  is  the  course  of  my  day :  get  up  at  8,  from  9 
sometimes  till  1 1  my  Spanish  professor,  at  1 1  breakfast, 
at  12  to  the  Legation,  at  3  home  again  and  a  cup  of 
chocolate,  then  read  the  paper  and  write  Spanish  till  a 
quarter  to  7,  at  7  dinner,  and  at  8  drive  in  an  open  car 
riage  in  the  Prado  till  10,  to  bed  at  12  to  I.  In  cooler 


228  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1878 

weather  we  drive  in  the  afternoon.     I  am  very  well 

cheerful  and  no  gout.  .  .  . 

Your  affectionate 

J.  R.  L. 

TO   MRS.  EDWARD  BURNETT 

Madrid,  Aug.  25,  1878. 

.  .  .  Things  go  on  here  much  as  usual.  The  death 
of  Queen  Cristina  (the  king's  grandmother)  I  feel  main 
ly  because  it  gives  us  two  months  more  of  full  mourn 
ing,  and  I  am  already  tired  of  my  sables.  It  will, 
besides,  cost  mamma  a  new  dress.  Such  are  the  pain 
ful  responsibilities  of  diplomacy !  Our  flag  is  floating 
at  half-mast  and  wreathed  in  crape,  from  the  balcony ; 
and  what  a  handsome  flag  it  is,  by  the  way !  .  .  . 

I  see  that  some  good  people  at  home  are  in  a  very 
desperate  mood  over  tramps  and  defalcations  and  so 
cialism  and  what  not.  For  my  part,  I  have  been  as 
sured  so  often  in  the  course  of  my  life  that  the  bottom 
of  the  world  had  at  last  dropt  out  for  good  and  all,  and 
yet  have  survived  to  see  it  hold  water  very  tolerably 
nevertheless,  that  I  am  not  much  scared.  I,  who  saw  the 
Irish  mobbed  in  Boston  ten  years  before  you  were  born, 
for  the  very  same  reason  that  the  Chinese  are  now 
hounded  by  the  Irish  in  California,  think  it  a  good  sign 
that  Kearney  can  address  his  countrymen  in  Faneuil 
Hall  and  talk  as  much  nonsense  to  'em  as  he  likes.  It 
proves  the  good  sense  of  our  people  (in  that  respect  at 
least)  and  the  solidity  of  our  social  framework.  I  ex 
pect  to  find  you  all  safe  and  well  when  I  come  home 
next  summer — for  I  mean  to  come  on  a  visit,  if  not  to 


1878]  TO    MRS.  W.   E.   DARWIN  22Q 

stay.  I  begin  to  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to  remain  here 
longer,  now  that  I  have  served  my  apprenticeship  and 
feel  at  home  in  my  business.  But  I  have  resolved  noth 
ing  as  yet,  and  what  I  say  you  must  keep  to  yourself. 

I  am  having  a  slight  touch  of  gout  since  the  last  few 
days — not  enough  to  keep  me  in  the  house,  but  only  to 
remind  me  that  I  have  joints  in  my  feet.  I  have  had 
to  put  on  my  cloth  shoes  again,  but  am  in  other  re 
spects  in  excellent  health  and  spirits — very  unlike  what 
I  was  last  year.  Then  I  had  not  the  spirit  to  be  inter 
ested  in  anything,  and  wished  myself  at  home  every 
five  minutes.  Now  I  begin  to  be  amused  with  what  I 
see  in  the  streets — for  example,  with  the  boys  playing 
bullfight  under  my  window.  One  boy  (the  bull)  covers 
his  head  with  a  long  basket  with  which  he  plunges  at 
the  rest,  who  irritate  him  with  colored  handkerchiefs 
and  rags.  When  this  has  gone  on  for  some  time  one 
of  them  goes  to  the  sidewalk  for  two  sticks  sharpened 
at  one  end,  which  represent  the  bander illas.  If  he  suc 
ceed  in  sticking  them  both  through  the  interstices  of 
the  basket  so  that  they  stand  up  firmly,  the  bull  drops 
and  is  despatched,  and  a  fresh  boy  dons  the  basket  and 
the  bullship.  They  make  me  think  of  Jem  and  Joe, 
and  are  somebody's  grandsons,  I  suppose,  at  any  rate.  .  .  . 


TO   MRS.  W.  E.  DARWIN 

Sept.  i,  1878. 

...  I  have  just  been  doing  something  that  reminds 
me  of  you  all  the  time.  I  should  be  willing  to  give  you 
a  thousand  guesses  and  you  wouldn't  divine  what.  .  .  . 


230  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1878 

However,  I  will  answer  my  own  conundrum  for  you. 
I  am  turned  Spanish  author !  "  Why  should  that  re 
mind  you  of  me,  pray  ?  Is  there  anything  Spanish 
about  me?"  No,  I'm  sure  there's  not,  but  my  author 
ship  is  of  a  very  humble  kind,  indeed.  "  Worse  and 
worse !  Is  there  anything  so  very  humble  about  me, 
sir?"  No,  I  didn't  mean  that,  but — in  short,  I  have 
been  translating  into  Spanish  a  sketch  of  Mr.  Darwin's 
life — no,  not  your  Mr.  Darwin,  certainly,  you  foolish 
little  person,  but  his  father.  Not  that  I  like  science  any 
better  than  I  ever  did.  I  hate  it  as  a  savage  does  writ 
ing,  because  he  fears  it  will  hurt  him  somehow ;  but  I 
have  a  great  respect  for  Mr.  Darwin,  as  almost  the  only 
perfectly  disinterested  lover  of  truth  I  ever  encountered. 
I  mean,  of  course,  in  his  books,  for  I  never  had  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  him.  So  I  volunteered  my  services 
as  dragoman,  and  when  the  opuscule  is  printed  (which 
will  not  be  for  some  time  yet),  I  shall  ask  permission  to 
lay  a  copy  at  your  feet,  as  we  say  here.  .  .  . 


TO   GEORGE   PUTNAM 

Madrid,  Sept.  9,  1878. 

.  .  .  Your  tobacco  came  safely  (except  that  the  Span 
ish  customs  officer  stole  one  package  and  filled  the 
gap  with  brown  paper.  I  mention  it  because  their 
system  of  appointment  is  just  like  ours)  and  is  a 
great  blessing.  I  wish  you  would  send  me  a  hun 
dred  more  packages  by  the  same  route.  Don't  sup 
pose  I  am  consuming  all  this  enormous  quantity  of 
smoke  like  a  new-fashioned  furnace.  I  want  it  for  quasi- 


1878]  TO    MISS    GRACE    NORTON  231 

diplomatic  service.  I  found  that  my  friend  the  Minis 
ter  of  State  (for  foreign  affairs),  who  has  been  every 
thing  I  could  wish  in  amiability  towards  me,  smokes  a 
pipe  in  the  secrecy  of  his  despacho  at  home,  and  as  I 
was  sure  he  must  be  blistering  his  tongue  with  Spanish 
mundungus,  I  sent  him  a  package  of  mine.  He  writes 
to  say  that  "  es  el  mejor  que  he  fumado  en  mi  vida;  no 
tenia  idea  de  cosa  tan  buena!"  So  I  sent  him  yester 
day  ten  more,  and  have  promised  to  keep  his  pipe  full 
for  so  long  as  I  am  here.  By  the  way,  he  is  going  to 
have  me  elected  a  corresponding  member  of  the  Span 
ish  Academy  (this  is  between  ourselves),  which  will  be 
very  agreeable,  as  I  shall  be  able  to  attend  the  weekly 
meetings  and  discuss  the  new  edition  of  the  Diction 
ary.  I  am  to  be  proposed  by  the  Prime  Minister  Ca- 
novas  del  Castillo,  the  Minister  of  State ;  and  Excmo. 
Sftr.  Nocedal,  leader  of  the  Ultramontanes  —  an  odd 
combination  for  me.  .  . 


TO   MISS   GRACE   NORTON 

Madrid,  Oct.  2,  1878. 

.  .  .  Yesterday  (I  mean  night  before  last)  we  went  to 
the  Teatro  Espaftol,  and  saw  a  very  clever  comedy  of 
Alarcon.  Of  course,  it  had  been  adapted,  as  all  the  old 
comedies  have  to  be ;  but  they  are  not  capable  of  being 
Rowed  and  Gibbered  as  Shakespeare  is,  for  they  have 
not  the  complexity  of  coherence  (if  I  may  venture  the 
Johnsonism)  that  characterizes  him.  It  was  the  Seme- 
jante  d  si  mismo.  The  hero,  with  that  whimsical  jeal 
ousy  of  an  accepted  lover  of  which  Spanish  play- 


232  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1878 

wrights  are  so  fond,  resolves  to  test  his  mistress.  His 
cousin  Don  Diego  has  just  arrived  from  Peru,  a  perfect 
stranger,  and  has  not  yet  presented  himself  to  his  rela 
tives.  Don  Juan  persuades  him  to  give  him  his  letters 
of  credence,  pretends  a  voyage  to  Peru,  takes  solemn 
leave,  and  presently  returns  as  Don  Diego.  He  con 
trives  to  have  news  arrive  of  his  other  self's  loss  at  sea, 
and  makes  love  to  Dofia  Ana.  She  very  readily  accepts 
and  even  returns  his  advances.  He  is  thus  in  the  com 
ical  position  of  being  jealous  of  himself.  In  his  anger 
he  tells  her  who  he  is.  She  excuses  herself  by  saying 
that  it  was  not  with  the  name  of  Juan  or  Diego  that 
she  was  in  love,  but  with  the  qualities  she  found  in  the 
bearer  of  both.  At  last,  after  a  very  pretty  complica 
tion,  in  which  everybody  refuses  to  believe  that  he  is 
Don  Juan,  all  ends  happily.  I  was  very  much  interest 
ed — it  was  so  pleasant  to  see  what  I  had  so  often  had 
to  imagine  in  reading  Spanish  plays.  The  acting  was 
good  —  especially  that  of  the  gracioso.  The  heroine 
was  perfectly  a  portrait  by  Vandyke  in  the  Museo,  so 
that  by  an  odd  trick  of  imagination  she  seemed  real,  a 
person  I  had  already  known.  .  .  . 


TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

7  Cuesta  de  Santo  Domingo, 
Madrid,  Nov.  10, 1878. 

.  .  .  We  have  had  General  Grant  [here],  and  I  gave 
him  a  dinner  and  reception.  As  he  speaks  nothing  but 
English,  he  was  as  incommunicable  as  an  iceberg,  and, 
I  think,  is  rather  bored  by  peregrination.  What  he 


1878]  TO    THOMAS    HUGHES  233 

likes  best  is  to  escape  and  wander  about  the  streets 
with  his  Achates  Young.  After  being  here  two  days,  I 
think  he  knew  Madrid  better  than  I.  He  seemed  to 
me  very  simple-minded,  honest,  and  sensible — very  easy 
to  be  led  by  anybody  he  likes.  He  is  perfectly  uncon 
scious  and  natural,  naively  puzzled,  I  fancied,  to  find 
himself  a  personage,  and  going  through  the  ceremonies 
to  which  he  is  condemned  with  a  dogged  imperturba 
bility  that  annotated  for  me  his  career  as  General.  He 
seemed  anxious  to  explain  to  me  his  quarrel  with  Sum- 
ner — or  Sumner's  with  him.  "  Sumner  is  the  only  man 
I  was  ever  anything  but  my  real  self  to ;  the  only  man 
I  ever  tried  to  conciliate  by  artificial  means" — those 
are  his  very  words.  .  .  .  Grant  has  an  excellent  mem 
ory  and  narrates  remarkably  well.  .  .  . 

TO  THOMAS  HUGHES 

Madrid,  Nov.  17,  1878. 

My  dear  Friend, — Now  and  then  there  is  an  advan 
tage  in  being  a  dilatory  correspondent ;  as,  for  example, 
if  a  friend  had  written  to  me  offering  the  splendid  op 
portunity  of  enrolling  myself  among  the  shareholders 
of  the  Emma  Mine,  I  should  have  been  as  safe  as  are 
the  pyramids  from  cholera.  More  punctual  men  would 
have  been  bitten,  but  I  should  have  found  so  many 
reasons  for  not  writing  to-day  nor  to-morrow  nor  next 
day,  that  by  the  time  I  dipt  my  pen  in  the  ink  I 
should  have  been  as  likely  to  subscribe  for  shares  in 
that  railway  to  the  moon  chartered  by  the  legislature 
of  New  Hampshire  as  in  the  enterprise  of  Messrs. 


234  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1878 

Schenk  &  Park.  Again,  if  I  were  one  of  those  admi 
rable  persons  who  always  reply  by  return  of  post,  I 
should  now  find  myself  entangled  in  a  web  of  con 
tradictory  opinions  and  prophecies  about  the  Eastern 
Question,  and  should  long  ago  have  had  to  deliver  an 
opinion  or  die,  on  the  vext  question  whether  the  Pleni- 
pos  at  Berlin  had  applied  a  plaster  or  a  blister  to  their 
unhappy  patient.  As  it  is,  I  have  only  been  called  on 
to  shake  my  head  and  leave  my  interlocutors  to  guess 
what  new  shape  I  had  thus  given  to  my  ideas.  Be 
tween  ourselves,  by  the  way,  I  am  satisfied  that  Dizzy's 
policy  has  done  a  good  deal  to  restore  the  prestige  of 
England  among  the  "  rest  of  mankind  " ;  and  as  I  back 
the  English  race  against  the  field,  I  am  not  sorry  for  it. 
I  hope  you  won't  have  a  war,  but  at  all  events  a  war 
between  England  and  Russia  would  be  a  war  between 
civilization  and  barbarism.  Moreover,  I  like  the  Turks 
for  about  as  good  a  reason  as  the  man  had  for  not  lik 
ing  Dr.  Fell,  but  still  I  like  them.  And  then  I  think  a 
good  deal  of  the  prejudice  against  Beaconsfield  is  mediae 
val,  of  a  piece  with  the  enlightened  public  opinion  which 
dictated  the  legend  of  Hugh  of  Lincoln.  There  are 
plenty  of  other  modern  versions  of  the  story  of  Joseph 
—only  people  know  not  Joseph,  that  is,  his  pedigree. 

Yes,  I  am  beginning  to  feel  handier  in  my  new  trade, 
but  I  had  a  hard  row  to  hoe  at  first.  All  alone,  with 
out  a  human  being  I  had  ever  seen  before  in  my  life, 
and  with  unaccustomed  duties,  feeling  as  if  I  were  beset 
with  snares  on  every  hand,  obliged  to  carry  on  the  great 
er  part  of  my  business  in  a  strange  tongue — it  was 
rather  trying  for  a  man  with  so  sympathetic  and  sensi- 


1878]  TO   THOMAS    HUGHES  235 

tive  a  temperament  as  mine,  and  I  don't  much  wonder 
the  gout  came  upon  me  like  an  armed  man.  Three 
attacks  in  five  months  !  But  now  I  begin  to  take  things 
more  easily. 

Still,  I  don't  like  the  business  much,  and  feel  that  I 
am  wasting  my  time.  Nearly  all  I  have  to  do  neither 
enlists  my  sympathies  much  nor  makes  any  call  on  my 
better  faculties.  I  feel,  however,  as  if  I  were  learning 
something,  and  I  dare  say  shall  find  I  have  when  I  get 
back  to  my  own  chimney-corner  again.  I  like  the  Span 
iards,  with  whom  I  find  many  natural  sympathies  in 
my  own  nature,  and  who  have  had  a  vast  deal  of  injus 
tice  done  them  by  this  commercial  generation.  They 
are  still  Orientals  to  a  degree  one  has  to  live  among 
them  to  believe.  But  I  think  they  are  getting  on.  The 
difficulty  is  that  they  don't  care  about  many  things 
that  we  are  fools  enough  to  care  about,  and  the  balance 
in  the  ledger  is  not  so  entirely  satisfactory  to  them  as 
a  standard  of  morality  as  to  some  more  advanced  na 
tions.  They  employ  inferior  races  (as  the  Romans  did) 
to  do  their  intellectual  drudgery  for  them,  their  political 
economy,  scholarship,  history,  and  the  like.  But  they 
are  advancing  even  on  these  lines,  and  one  of  these  days 
— but  I  won't  prophesy.  Suffice  it  that  they  have 
plenty  of  brains,  if  ever  they  should  condescend  so  far 
from  their  hidalguia  as  to  turn  them  to  advantage.  At 
present  they  prefer  the  brook  to  the  mill-pond.  They 
get  a  good  deal  out  of  life  at  a  cheap  rate,  and  are  not 
far  from  wisdom,  if  the  old  Greek  philosophers  who 
used  to  be  held  up  to  us  as  an  example  knew  anything 
about  the  matter.  .  .  . 


236  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1879 

TO   MISS   GRACE  NORTON 

Madrid,  Jan.  15,  1879. 

Dear  Grace, — I  wrote  some  verses  thirty  odd  years 
ago  called  "  Without  and  Within,"  and  they  originally 
ended  with  the  author's  looking  up  at  the  stars  through 
six  feet  of  earth  and  feeling  dreadfully  bored,  while  a 
passer-by  deciphers  the  headstone  and  envies  the  sup 
posed  sleeper  beneath.  I  was  persuaded  to  leave  out 
this  ending  as  too  grim — but  I  often  think  of  it.  They 
have  a  fine  name  for  this  kind  of  feeling  nowadays,  and 
would  fain  make  out  pessimism  to  be  a  monstrous  birth 
of  our  century.  I  suspect  it  has  always  been  common 
enough,  especially  with  naughty  children  who  get  tired 
of  their  playthings  as  soon  as  I  do — the  absurdity  being 
that  then  we  are  not  content  with  smashing  the  toy 
which  turns  out  to  be  finite — but  everything  else  into 
the  bargain.  .  .  . 

I  wonder  if  somebody  else,  if  I  myself  when  I 
was  younger,  couldn't  find  enough  that  was  interest 
ing  to  say  about  this  New  World,  that  has  become 
new  by  dint  of  staying  pretty  much  where  it  was 
when  Columbus  left  it  to  find  another — because  this, 
I  suppose,  had  grown  tiresome.  I  shall  have  a  good 
deal  to  tell  by  the  chimney-corner  if  ever  I  get  back  to 
it,  I  have  no  doubt,  but  it  takes  a  great  while  for  things 
to  settle  and  separate  themselves  in  my  memory.  Shall 
I  tell  you  of  a  reception  at  the  palace  ?  It  is  so  comi 
cally  like  what  one  sees  on  the  stage,  and  really  is  so 
much  a  mere  piece  of  acting  here,  that  it  seems  hardly 
worth  while.  Or  shall  I  write  of  the  weather?  That, 


1879]  TO    GEORGE   PUTNAM  237 

after  all,  in  spite  of  the  fun  that  has  been  made  of  it 
as  a  topic  of  conversation,  is  the  only  one  of  universal 
and  permanent  interest,  and  you  will  be  glad  to  know 
that  we  have  had  a  rainy  winter,  on  the  whole,  but  roses 
have  been  in  bloom  all  the  while,  and  the  daisies  were 
opening  their  eyes  in  the  grass  more  than  a  week  ago. 
There  are  great  patches  of  green  on  the  brown  gaber 
dine  of  the  Campifia,  and  there  is  a  sound  of  spring  in 
the  voice  of  the  sparrows.  But  the  Guadarramas  (the 
tallest  of  them)  are  dreamy  with  snow,  and  don  ever 
and  anon  (don  anon !)  a  kind  of  luminous  mantilla  of 
cloud  that  is  wonderfully  fine.  I  explain  this  nebular 
radiance  by  the  vapors  being  comparatively  low,  so  that 
the  sunshine  is  reflected  through  them  from  the  snow 
behind.  I  think  I  have  told  you  that  I  like  the  Cam 
pifia  better  than  the  Campagna.  It  is  serious,  it  is  more 
than  that — it  is  even  sad,  but  it  is  the  sadness  and  in- 
communicativeness  of  nature  and  not  the  melancholy 
of  ruin.  It  is  vast  and  grows  vaster  the  more  you  see 
it,  and  one  conceives  the  rotundity  of  the  earth,  as  at  sea. 
It  always  looks  to  me  like  a  land  not  yet  taken  possession 
of  by  man,  rather  than  one  that  he  has  worn  out.  .  .  . 

TO   GEORGE   PUTNAM 

Madrid,  March  3,  1879. 

...  I  have  pretty  much  made  up  my  mind  to  stay 
on  here  for  at  least  another  year — perhaps  for  two,  if 
they  don't  Motleyize  me.  I  have  now  learned  my  busi 
ness,  and  after  two  years  of  a  discomfort  that  has  some 
times  been  almost  intolerable  I  should  like  to  get  a 
little  pleasure  and  profit  out  of  my  exile.  .  .  . 


238  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [18/9 

TO   MISS   GRACE  NORTON 

Madrid,  March  4,  1879. 

.  .  .  Since  I  have  been  here  I  have  been  reading  a 
good  many  travels  in  Spain,  beginning  with  a  Bohe 
mian  knight  of  the  fifteenth  century  and  ending  with 
Theophile  Gautier.  It  is  very  curious  in  how  many 
particulars  the  earliest  and  latest  agree,  proving,  I  sus 
pect,  that  the  condition  of  the  country  is  not  due  to 
the  expulsion  of  Moors  and  Jews,  or  to  the  House  of 
Austria,  or  the  Bourbons,  so  much  as  to  something  in 
the  character  of  the  people. 

Generally  the  balls  I  have  to  attend  are  a  bore,  but 
I  was  interested  in  one  the  other  night  at  the  Duke  of 
Osuna's,  who  lives  in  a  real  palace  with  family  portraits 
and  relics.  The  duke  represents  ten  grandeeships  of 
the  first  class — which  ought  to  give  him  the  right  to 
wear  ten  hats  in  the  presence  of  the  king.  He  sums 
up  in  himself  Bejar,  Olivares,  Lerma,  and  other  names 
we  all  know.  He  is  ruined,  but  comfortably  so,  for  he 
is  allowed  a  hundred  thousand  dollars  a  year  by  his 
creditors.  But  he  cannot  live  on  it.  He  has  ruined 
himself  magnificently.  While  ambassador  at  St.  Pe 
tersburg  he  sent  all  his  clothes  home  to  be  washed  in 
the  Manzanares,  and  had  a  table  of  fourteen  covers  set 
every  day  in  his  palace  here.  He  seems  to  have  inher 
ited  his  magnificent  wastefulness,  for  Lord  Auckland 
speaks  of  a  ball  given  by  his  grandfather  (I  suppose) 
in  1788  that  cost  ,£8000.  It  is  a  wonder  he  inherited 
anything  else. 

Field  is  still  with  us,  and  we  propose,  as  he  no  doubt 


1879]  TO   W.   D.   HOWELLS  239 

has  told  you,  a  little  excursion  together  to  the  Balearic 
Islands,  but  as  the  ministry  resigned  yesterday  I  sup 
pose  I  shall  have  to  stick  in  Madrid  for  the  present. 
Politics  here  are  in  one  respect  interesting  and  worth 
study.  They  are  so  personal  and  so  much  moved  by 
springs  of  intrigue  that  they  help  one  to  a  more  vivid 
understanding  of  those  of  the  last  century.  I  can 
make  no  guess  as  to  what  is  to  take  place.  .  .  . 


TO  W.  D.  HOWELLS 

Madrid,  May  2,  1879. 

Dear  Howells, — When  Aldrich  passed  through  here 
he  brought  me  some  excuse  or  other  from  you  for  not 
having  answered  a  letter  of  mine.  Was  it  an  abominable 
sarcasm  sent  all  the  way  over  the  ocean  with  its  subtile 
barb  dipt  in  sweetened  poison — the  worst  kind  of  all? 
If  not,  the  sensation  is  so  novel  that  I  ought  not  to  en 
danger  it  by  any  clumsy  interferences  of  mine.  I  am 
as  sure  as  I  well  can  be  of  anything  that  no  man  ever 
before  accomplished  the  feat  of  owing  me  a  letter.  Be 
lieve  me,  my  dear  boy,  it  is  your  most  exquisite  literary 
achievement.  My  own  debts  of  this  kind  commonly 
gather  and  gather  till  bankruptcy  is  the  only  possible 
outlet  —  and  without  a  dividend.  Never  a  court  in 
Christendom  would  whitewash  me.  Now  I  am  going 
to  astonish  you  by  paying  you  a  penny  in  the  pound. 

And  yet  I  can't  say  that  you  had  wholly  neglected 
me.  I  always  fancy  that  an  author's  works  are  more 
intimately  addressed  to  his  friends,  have  passages  in 
them  written  in  sympathetic  ink  invisible  to  the  vulgar, 


240  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1879 

but  revealing  themselves  to  the  penetrating  warmth  of 
friendship.  And  your  "  Lady  of  the  Aroostook  "  was  to 
me  a  delightful  instance  of  this  cryptography.  I  read 
it  as  it  came  out  in  the  Atlantic,  and  was  always  as  im 
patient  for  more  as  the  French  ladies  used  to  be  for 
more  Arabian  Nights.  It  is  delightful,  and  there  was 
never  a  slyer  bit  of  satire  than  your  Englishman  who 
loves  the  real  American  flavor,  while  his  wife  is  abolish 
ing  herself  as  hard  as  she  can  in  a  second-hand  Angli 
cism.  I  am  quite  in  love  with  your  heroine,  and  am 
grateful  to  you  accordingly.  .  .  . 

I  am  painfully  struck,  by  the  way,  with  the  amount  of 
discussion  going  on  just  now,  which  somehow  implies  a 
certain  consciousness  of  inferiority  on  our  part  as  com 
pared  with  our  English  cousins.  (I  confess,  let  me  say 

in  passing,  that  I  am  tired  to  death  of  's  laborious 

demonstration  that  we  have  a  right  to  our  mother- 
tongue  !  If  he  would  devote  himself  to  hunting  down 
American  vulgarisms  and  corruptions — I  observe  that 
even  the  Atlantic,  in  some  sort  the  child  of  my  entrails, 
confuses  will  and  shall — more  power  to  his  elbow  !)  I 
think  we  were  less  conscious  when  I  was  a  youngster. 
Nowadays  Europe,  and  especially  England,  seems  a  glass 
of  which  everybody  is  uncomfortably  aware,  an  horizon 
which,  instead  of  suggesting  something  beyond  itself, 
cuts  us  all  off  with  reflections  of  (perhaps  I  should  say 
on)  our  unhappy  selves.  We  are  all  the  time  wonder 
ing  what  is  thought  of  us  over  there,  instead  of  going 
quietly  about  our  business. 

However,  my  opinion  is  of  no  earthly  consequence,  for 
I  feel  every  day  more  sensibly  that  I  belong  to  a  former 


1879]  TO    C.   E.  NORTON  241 

age.  A  new  generation  has  grown  up  that  knows  not 
Joseph,  and  I  have  nothing  left  to  do  but  to  rake  to 
gether  what  embers  are  left  of  my  fire  and  get  what 
warmth  out  of  them  I  may.  I  still  take  an  interest, 
however,  in  what  some  of  the  young  ones  are  doing,  as 
a  gambler  who  has  emptied  his  pockets  still  watches  the 
game,  and  especially  in  you  who  always  do  conscien 
tious  work.  So  I  venture  to  tell  you  that  I  think  your 
new  book  especially  wholesome  and  admirable. 

You  can't  imagine  how  far  I  am  away  from  the  world 
here — I  mean  the  modern  world.  Spain  is  as  primitive 
in  some  ways  as  the  books  of  Moses  and  as  oriental. 
Spaniards  have,  I  believe,  every  possible  fault — and  yet 
I  love  the  jades  for  a'  that !  They  find  themselves  in 
the  midst  of  a  commercial  age,  poor  devils  !  with  as  little 
knowledge  of  book-keeping  as  the  Grand  Turk.  But 
there  is  something  fine  in  this  impenetrability  of  theirs, 
and  the  grand  way  they  wrap  themselves  in  their  rag 
ged  capa  of  a  past  and  find  warmth  in  their  pride. 
Their  indifference  to  legitimate  profit  is  a  continual 
comfort,  and  they  have  no  more  enterprise  than  an 
Old  Cambridge  man. 

Good-by.     Write   another   story  at  once,  and  don't 

forget 

Your  affectionate- old  friend, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

MadflS,  May  4,  1879. 

.  .  .  One  thing  I  have  remarked  here,  not  without 
serious  foreboding.     I  mean  the  analogy  between  the 
II.— 16 


242  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1879 

Spanish  civil  service  with  its  inevitable  results,  and  our 
own.  Politics  here  is  a  scramble  for  office.  Leaders, 
therefore,  represent  not  a  principle,  but  simply  a  chance. 
A  government  once  in  power  cooks  the  elections  to  its 
fancy,  and  there  is  absolutely  no  way  to  a  change  except 
through  a  pronunciamiento.  Are  we  not  moving  more 
or  less  rapidly  in  the  same  direction  ?  As  we  have  no 
standing  army,  we  choose  the  more  cowardly  way  of 
fraud  rather  than  the  bolder  of  brute  force.  But  the  root 
of  the  matter  seems  the  same — the  hopelessness  of  get 
ting  power  and  place  against  the  patronage  and  myriad 
means  of  influence  of  the  cabal  in  possession.  I  have 
great  faith  in  the  good  sense  of  our  people,  but  deteri 
oration  of  national  character  is  always  so  gradual  and  im 
perceptible,  and  we  are  receiving  so  strong  a  dose  of 
alien  and  more  impatient  blood,  that  there  is  certainly 
room  for  doubt.  It  all  depends  on  our  force  of  diges 
tion,  but  with  the  utter  decay  of  the  principle  of  au 
thority  the  world  has  a  new  problem  before  it.  Per 
haps  Judge  Lynch  is  not  so  bad  a  fellow  after  all  from 
some  points  of  view.  .  .  . 


TO   LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Madrid,  June  8,  1879. 

My  dear  Stephen, —  .  .  .  What  you  say  of  politics 
and  the  D — 1  reminds  me  of  the  Universalist  who  an 
nounced  his  conversion  to  Calvinism  during  our  civil 
war,  because  "  he  was  satisfied  that  Hell  was  a  mili 
tary  necessity."  But  to  me  over  here  in  Spain,  which 
is  pretty  much  what  it  was  when  Gil  Bias  saw  it,  any 


1 879]  TO   MISS   GRACE   NORTON  243 

kind  of  administration  looks  ideal.  "War-horses"  and 
"  Favorite  Sons  "  are  plentier  here  than  in  the  best 
country  in  the  world. 

Over  there,  by  the  way,  I  see  they  are  in  a  great  tak 
ing  over  the  new  California  Constitution.  I  am  rather 
pleased  with  it  myself,  for  it  is  going  to  show  how  really 
healthy  our  body  politic  is.  It  is  the  great  advantage 
of  our  system  that  one  State  can  try  quack  medicines 
while  the  others  look  on  and  await  the  result.  No 
Dennis  Kearney  was  ever  yet  contrived  who  could 
make  himself  master  of  the  helm. 


TO  MISS  GRACE  NORTON 

Madrid,  Corpus  Christi,  June  12,  1879. 

...  I  am  still  reading  old  travels  in  Spain,  and  with 
profit  as  well  as  interest.  And  this,  with  Harry  James's 
and  Howells's  stories,  has  made  me  very  vividly  con 
scious  of  a  sad  change.  The  old  travellers  tell  what 
they  see,  and  talk  of  men  as  impartially — of  men  and 
their  ways  I  mean — as  they  would  of  animals  of  any 
other  species.  They  are  interested,  and  seem  rather 
glad  than  otherwise  to  come  across  strange  habits  as  a 
relief  from  the  general  monotony  of  existence.  They 
record  facts,  and  neither  draw  conclusions  nor  make 
comparisons.  Nations  seem  to  have  had  an  individu 
ality  that  satisfied  themselves  and  other  people.  Now 
they  have  become  self-conscious.  There  is  a  standard 
somewhere  or  other  to  which  they  all  strive  more  or 
less  eagerly  to  prove  themselves  conformable,  and  which 
every  traveller  seems  to  carry  in  his  pocket.  No  nation 


244  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1879 

seems  to  be  free  from  this  weakness,  or  to  have  that 
high  style  of  manners  that  comes  of  perfect  self-pos 
session  or  from  interest  in  loftier  matters  than  whether 
they  eat  with  their  knives — we  Americans  least  of  all. 
I  know,  of  course,  that  there  is  a  standard  of  good  man 
ners,  and  that  the  comfort  of  life  and  the  security  of 
civilization  are  in  some  measure  dependent  on  its  main 
tenance.  But  this  is  not  precisely  what  I  mean.  (Here 
I  was  interrupted  by  a  visitor,  and  can't  knit  together 
again  the  broken  ends  of  my  thread  of  thought.)  But 
one  thing  seems  clear  to  me,  and  that  is  that  the  Amer 
icans  I  remember  fifty  years  ago  had  a  consciousness  of 
standing  firmer  on  their  own  feet  and  in  their  own  shoes 
than  those  of  the  newer  generation.  We  are  vulgar 
now  precisely  because  we  are  afraid  of  being  so.  The 
English  press  is  provincializing  us  again.  I  don't  object 
to  English  criticism,  but  I  do  to  English  influence,  for 
England  seems  to  me  the  incarnation  of  the  Kingdom 
of  this  World.  .  .  . 

TO   THE    SAME 

Madrid,  Aug.  16,  1879. 

.  .  .  Life  does  seem  sometimes  a  hard  thing  to  bear, 
and  all  that  makes  it  bearable  is  to  occupy  the  mind 
with  the  nobler  moods  of  contemplation — not  shutting 
our  eyes  to  what  is  mean  and  ugly,  but  striving  to  inter 
pret  it  rightly.  However  we  explain  it,  whether  as  im 
planted  by  God  or  the  result  of  long  and  laborious  evo 
lution,  there  is  something  in  the  flesh  that  is  superior 
to  the  flesh,  something  that  can  in  finer  moments  abol 
ish  matter  and  pain,  and  it  is  to  this  we  must  cleave.  I 


1879]  TO   MISS   GRACE   NORTON   AND    F.  J.  CHILD  245 

do  not  see  how  even  the  loss  of  mind  tells  against  a  be 
lief  in  this  superior  thing — for  is  the  mind  really  dying 
in  the  same  way  as  the  body  dies  ?  or  is  it  only  that  the 
tools  it  works  with  are  worn  out  or  bent  or  broken  ?  .  . . 


TO    THE    SAME 

Madrid,  Sept.  12,  1879. 

.  .  .  They  talk  a  good  deal  about  fetiches  nowadays, 
but  I  confess  that  I  have  sometimes  lately  been  in  a 
state  of  mind  when  I  could  have  vowed  a  gigantic  can 
dle  to  a  saint.  And  why  not,  if  I  was  baby  enough  to 
be  quieted  a  moment  by  a  toy  ?  I  think  the  evolution 
ists  will  have  to  make  a  fetich  of  their  protoplasm  before 
long.  Such  a  mush  seems  to  me  a  poor  substitute  for 
the  Rock  of  Ages — by  which  I  understand  a  certain  set 
of  higher  instincts  which  mankind  have  found  solid  un 
der  their  feet  in  all  weathers.  At  any  rate,  I  find  a  use 
ful  moral  in  the  story  of  Bluebeard.  We  have  the  key 
put  into  our  hands,  but  there  is  always  one  door  it  is 
wisest  not  to  unlock.  I  suppose  there  are  times  when 
the  happiest  of  us  ask  ourselves  whether  life  is  worth 
living,  but  did  you  ever  happen  to  hear  of  a  pessimist 
sincere  enough  to  cut  his  own  throat?  .  .  . 


TO   F.  J.  CHILD 

Madrid,  Dec.  30,  1879. 

...  I  will  try,  when  I  can  pull  myself  together  again, 
to  see  if  I  can  get  you  any  inedited  folksongs.  But  I 
greatly  doubt.  The  Spaniards  are  singularly  indifferent 


246  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1880 

to  such  things,  if  not  contemptuous  of  them.  There  is 
almost  no  scholarship  here  in  our  sense  of  the  word,  and 
most  of  the  criticism  is  in  the  good  old  isime  style.  So 
entire  a  self-satisfaction  I  never  saw  in  any  people. 

.  .  .  The  penitus  divisos  ab  orbe  Britannos  were  noth 
ing  to  them  in  point  of  seclusion  from  the  rest  of  man 
kind.  But  I  love  the  jades  for  a'  that — perhaps  on  ac 
count  of  a'  that.  I  shout  with  laughter  over  their  news 
papers  sometimes.  For  example,  the  Impartial  (a  very 
clever  paper  by  the  way)  had  an  article  not  long  ago  on 
"  Longevity  in  Europe/'  based  on  one  by  Max  Wald- 
stein  in  a  Viennese  review.  Here  is  a  bit  of  it :  "  Sali- 
mos  los  Espaftoles  los  menos  aventajados  en  eso  de  vivir 
mucho  tiempo ;  pero  como  es  necesario  dudar  siempre  de 
la  veracidad  de  los  extrangeros  en  to  do  cuanto  atane  d  nu- 
estro  pais,  etc.,  etc.  Isn't  that  delicious  ?  Commonly 
they  bluntly  attribute  this  malice  of  facts  to  envy. 
They  fancy  themselves  always  in  the  age  of  Charles  V., 
and  the  perfect  gravity  with  which  they  always  assume 
the  airs  of  a  Great  Power  is  not  without  a  kind  of  pa 
thetic  dignity.  We  all  wink  at  the  little  shifts  of  a  de 
cayed  gentleman,  especially  when  he  is  Don  Quixote,  as 
this  one  certainly  is.  ... 


TO   MRS.  EDWARD    BURNETT 

Madrid,  Jan.  22,  1880. 

.  .  .  Day  before  yesterday  I  was  startled  with  a  cipher 
telegram.  My  first  thought  was,  "  Row  in  Cuba — I  shall 
have  no  end  of  bother."  It  turned  out  to  be  this : 
"  President  has  nominated  you  to  England.  He  regards 


l88o]  TO    MRS.   W.   E.   DARWIN  247 

it  as  essential  to  the  public  service  that  you  should  ac 
cept  and  make  your  personal  arrangements  to  repair  to 
London  as  early  as  may  be.  Your  friends  whom  I 
have  conferred  with  concur  in  this  view."  You  see  that 
is  in  very  agreeable  terms,  and  at  least  shows  that  Gov 
ernment  is  satisfied  with  my  conduct  here.  I  was  afraid 
of  its  effects  on  mamma*  at  first ;  but  she  was  pleased, 
and  began  at  once  to  contrive  how  I  could  accept, 
which  she  wished  me  to  do.  I  answered  :  "  Feel  highly 
honored  by  the  President's  confidence.  Could  accept  if 
allowed  two  months'  delay.  Impossible  to  move  or 
leave  my  wife  sooner." 

The  papers  already  announce  the  appointment  of  my 
successor  here,  but  say  nothing  about  me.  The  doctor 
says  I  could  safely  leave  mamma  now  for  a  few  weeks, 
in  which  case  I  could  go  to  London  and  present  my  let 
ters  of  credence  and  come  back  here.  The  rent  of  my 
house  is  paid  to  March  1st,  and  I  should  feel  easier  now 
the  Fields  are  here.  It  is  certainly  an  honor  to  be  pro 
moted  to  the  chief  post  in  our  diplomatic  service,  and 
I  should  like  to  serve  (if  only  for  a  year)  for  the  sake 
of  my  grandchildren  if  nothing  else.  By  this  time  you 
probably  know  more  about  it  than  I.  ... 

TO    MRS.  W.  E.  DARWIN 

Madrid,  Jan.  26,  1880. 

.  .  .  You  look  at  only  one  side  of  the  matter  (and  it  is 
one  great  merit  of  your  sex  that  they  always  do),  and 
don't  consider,  first,  whether  I  can  afford  it — though  that 

*  Mrs.  Lowell  was  recovering  from  long,  desperate  illness. 


248  LETTERS    OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1880 

is  the  least,  for  I  have  no  profound  faith  in  fuss  and 
feathers,  and  it  is  they  that  cost  most — but,  second,  you 
don't  consider  how  I  hate  snobs  and  bores,  and  how 
many  of  our  richer  countrymen  have  to  be  thus  la 
belled  by  the  scientific  inquirer.  Madrid  is  a  kind  of 
Patmos  in  comparison  with  London,  and  yet  even  here 
I  have  been  hunted  down  by  Monsieur  Jourdains,  whose 
great  object  in  life  seemed  to  be  to  inform  everybody 
that -they  travelled  with  two  servants  or  with  a  courier, 
or  that  somehow  or  other  they  were  not  Americans  ex 
actly. 

And  the  worst  of  it  is  that  the  Eastern  States  provide 
most  of  these  vermin.  Your  Westerner,  thank  God  !  if 
he  hasn't  the  manners  of  Vere  de  Vere,  has  at  least  that 
first  quality  of  a  gentleman,  that  he  stands  squarely  on 
his  own  feet  and  is  as  unconscious  as  a  prairie.  You 
can  fancy  how  many  of  our  countrymen  are  speedily 
convinced  that  I  am  wholly  unfit  to  represent  the  great 
republic — and  all  of  'em  pass  through  London !  But, 
after  all,  the  Senate  hasn't  confirmed  me  yet.  .  .  . 


TO   R.  W.  GILDER 

Madrid,  Jan.  26,  1880. 

Thank  you  for  your  congratulations.  I  know  not 
whether  I  deserve  them  or  no.  At  any  rate,  I  had  no 
choice,  for  I  was  nominated  without  consultation.  Oth 
erwise  I  hardly  should  have  accepted.  As  I  had  con 
sented  to  come  hither  for  my  own  pleasure,  I  felt  bound 
to  obey  orders. 

I  shall  probably  go  to  London  to  present  my  creden- 


l88o]  TO    R.   W.   GILDER  249 

tials,  and  then  come  back  hither  to  remove  Mrs.  Lowell, 
who  is  better,  but  not  yet  able  to  leave  her  bed. 

However,  the  Senate  have  not  acted  on  me  yet,  so  I 
may  not  come  after  all.  .  .  . 


IX 

1880-1885 

IN  LONDON.  —  VACATION  TOUR  TO  GERMANY  AND  ITALY. — 
DEATH  OF  MRS.  LOWELL. DEPARTURE  FROM  ENGLAND. 

LETTERS  TO  C.  E.  NORTON,  H.  W.  LONGFELLOW,  MRS.  W.  E. 
DARWIN,  R.  W.  GILDER,  JOHN  W.  FIELD,  T.  B.  ALDRICH, 
W.  D.  HOWELLS,  F.  J.  CHILD,  J.  B.  THAYER,  GEORGE  PUT 
NAM,  MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD,  O.  W.  HOLMES,  MISS  GRACE 
NORTON. 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

37  Lowndes  St.,  S.  W.,  Aug.  17,  1880. 

...  I  find  that  you  have  been  very  lenient  in  your  judg 
ment  on  my  poems  and  have  used  a  far  finer  sieve  than 
I  should  have  chosen  if  I  had  done  the  sifting.  They 
always  make  me  sad,  thinking  how  much  better  I  might 
have  done  if  in  the  early  years  I  had  improvised  less, 
and  if  in  the  later  other  avocations  and  studies  had 
not  made  my  hand  more  clumsy  through  want  of  use, 
than  it  might  have  been  had  I  kept  more  closely  to 
verse  and  to  the  mood  which  that  implies.  But  it  is 
something  that  three  such  friends  as  you  and  George 
Curtis  and  Child  should  still  retain  a  certain  amount  of 
interest  in  what  I  have  written.  I  not  only  approve, 
but  shall  perhaps  go  further  if  I  once  begin.  The  ques- 


l88o]  TO    H.  W.  LONGFELLOW  251 

tion  was  simply  one  of  leaving  out  anything — for  the 
terrible  manet  litera  scripta  was  staring  me  in  the  face, 
and  positively  made  me  unwilling  to  reprint  at  all.  By 
the  way,  I  spent  Sunday  with  Mr.  Leveson  Gower  (Lord 
Granville's  brother  and  a  charming  host),  and  coming  in 
from  out  of  doors  came  upon  John  Bright  reading  aloud 
from  the  "  Commemoration  Ode."  It  sounded  better 
than  I  feared — but  when  I  am  asked  to  read  I  never 
can  find  anything  that  seems  to  me  good  enough.  .  .  . 


TO   H.  W.  LONGFELLOW 

37  Lowndes  St.,  S.  W.,  Oct.  3,  1880. 

My  dear  Longfellow, — I  have  just  been  reading,  with 
a  feeling  I  will  not  mar  by  trying  to  express  it,  your 
"  Ultima  Thule."  You  will  understand  the  pang  of 
pleasurable  homesickness  it  gave  me.  I  cannot  praise 
it  better  than  by  saying  that  it  is  like  you  from  the  first 
line  to  the  last.  Never  was  your  hand  firmer.  If  Gil 
Bias  had  been  your  secretary  he  never  need  have  lost 
his  place.  I  haven't  a  Dante  by  me,  and  my  memory 
is  in  a  very  dilapidated  state,  but  you  will  remember 
the  passage  I  am  thinking  of,  where  the  old  poet  in 
Purgatory  says  to  him,  Or  set  tu  colui,  and  so  on.  lo 
mi  son  uno  che  quando  Amor  mi  spira  is  a  part  of  it.  If 
I  could  only  drop  into  your  study  as  I  used,  I  should 
call  you  "  old  fellow,"  as  we  do  boys,  without  any  reck 
oning  of  years  in  it,  and  tell  you  that  you  had  mis- 
reckoned  the  height  of  the  sun,  and  were  not  up  with 
Ultima  Thule  by  a  good  many  degrees  yet.  Do  such 
fruits  grow  there  ? 


252  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1880 

But  you  have  made  me  more  homesick  than  ever, 
and  I  feel  like  the  Irishman  whose  friend  was  carrying 
him  for  a  wager  up  to  the  roof  on  a  ladder — "  Begorra, 
whin  you  were  at  the  thurrud  story  I  had  hopes !"  So 
I  begin  to  think  it  wouldn't  be  so  bad  if  Hancock  were 
elected — for  he  would  recall  me.  I  like  my  present 
life  as  Touchstone  did  his  in  the  forest.  However,  I 
dare  say  Garfield  will  have  somebody  he  would  like  to 
send  in  my  place. 

I  hope  the  Club  still  persists.  I  have  never  found 
such  good  society  and  don't  expect  it.  I  forwarded 
to  you  yesterday  a  box  containing  a  drawing  of  the 
Minnehaha  Fall  by  Lord  Dufferin.  It  goes  to  the  care 
of  the  State  Department,  which  I  thought  would  save 
trouble.  I  hope  it  will  arrive  safely.  Good-by,  hoist 
sail  again  without  delay,  and  correct  your  geography. 
You  are  sure  of  a  welcome  in  every  port. 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO   MRS.  W.  E.  DARWIN 

London,  Oct.  10,  1880. 

...  As  you  intervened  unofficially  (or  benevolently,  as 
we  diplomatists  say)  in  the  affair  of  the  Workingmen's 
College,  I  have  the  honor  to  report  that  I  have  fulfilled 
your  instructions  by  talking  to  the  unfortunate  youth 
who  compose  the  Body — as  the  teachers  do  the  Soul — 
of  that  excellent  institution.  That  part  of  Dogberry's 
charge  to  the  watch  in  which  he  inculcates  the  duty  of 
"  comprehending  all  vagrom  men,"  seems  to  me  a  very 
fair  expression  of  the  painful  position  in  which  a  quasi- 


I88l]  TO    R.  W.  GILDER  253 

compulsory  audience  is  placed  by  itinerant  lecturers. 
But  some  pity  is  also  due  to  the  unfortunate  creature 
who  is  obliged  to  inflict  his  particular  form  of  aphasia 
(isn't  that  the  word?)  upon  them.  As  for  me,  who 
value  my  own  wisdom  less  the  older  I  grow,  and  who 
found  it  absolutely  impossible  to  prepare  anything,  I 
shall  not  attempt  to  pathologize  for  you  the  pangs  I 
underwent.  When  I  saw  directly  under  me  a  row  of 
eight  reporters,  I  was  abashed  by  the  feeling  that  I  was 
decanting  my  emptiness  into  a  huge  ear-trumpet  which 
communicated  with  the  four  winds  of  heaven,  whose 
duty  it  would  be  to  bear  every  idle  word  I  uttered  to 
the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth.  If  you  had  been  there, 
you  would  have  swallowed  it  all  without  a  wry  face, 
and  would  have  told  me  afterwards  that  it  was  a  "  splen 
did  success,"  with  that  sweet  partiality  which  character 
izes  all  your  sex  .  .  .  and  which  is  one  of  the  few  things 
that  make  life  endurable  to  its  victims.  I  did  not  quite 
break  down — but  I  heard  several  ominous  cracks  under 
me  as  I  hurried  over  the  slender  and  shaky  bridge  which 
led  from  my  exordium  to  my  peroration.  .  .  . 

TO   R.  W.  GILDER 

Legation  of  the  United  States, 
London,  Sept.  4,  1881. 

Dear  Mr.  Gilder,  —  Your  telegram  scared  me,  for, 
coming  at  an  unusual  hour,  I  thought  it  brought  ill 
news  from  Washington.*  My  relief  on  finding  it  inno 
cent  has  perhaps  made  me  too  good-natured  towards 

*  Of  President  Garfield's  condition. 


254  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [l88l 

the  verses  I  send  you,  but  I  have  waited  sixty-two  years 
for  them,  and  am  willing  to  wait  as  many  more  (not 
here)  before  they  are  printed.  Do  what  you  like  with 
them.  They  mean  only  my  hearty  good-will  towards 
you  and  my  hope  for  your  success  in  your  new  under 
taking.  .  . . 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

If  I  could  see  the  proofs,  very  likely  I  could  better 
it — they  sober  one  and  bring  one  to  his  bearings.  Per 
haps  the  metaphysical  (or  whatever  they  are)  stanzas — 
what  I  mean  is  moralizing—  were  better  away.  Perhaps 
too  many  compound  epithets — but  I  had  to  give  up 
"  visionary "  in  order  to  save  "  legendary,"  which  was 
essential.  Perhaps  a  note,  saying  that  so  long  as  the 
author  can  remember  a  pair  of  these  birds  (give  ornitho 
logical  name — muscicapa  ?)  have  built  on  a  jutting  brick 
in  an  archway  leading  to  the  house  at  Elmwood — or 
does  everybody  know  what  a  phcebe  is  ?  I  am  so  old 
that  I  am  accustomed  to  people's  being  ignorant  of 
whatever  you  please. 

PHCEBE 

Ere  pales  in  heaven  the  morning  star, 

A  bird,  the  loneliest  of  its  kind, 
Hears  Dawn's  faint  footfall  from  afar 

While  all  its  mates  are  dumb  and  blind. 

It  is  a  wee  sad-colored  thing, 

As  shy  and  secret  as  a  maid, 
That,  ere  in  choir  the  robins  ring, 

Pipes  its  own  name  like  one  afraid. 


I88l]  TO    R.  W.  GILDER  255 

It  seems  pain-prompted  to  repeat 

The  story  of  some  ancient  ill, 
But  Phoebe!  Phoebe!  sadly  sweet 

Is  all  it  says  and  then  is  still. 

It  calls  and  listens.     Earth  and  sky, 

Hushed  by  the  pathos  of  its  fate, 
Listen,  breath  held,  but  no  reply 

Comes  from  its  doom-divided  mate. 

Phoebe!  it  calls  and  calls  again, 

And  Ovid,  could  he  but  have  heard, 

Had  hung  a  legendary  pain 

About  the  memory  of  the  bird ; 

A  pain  articulate  so  long 

In  penance  of  some  mouldered  crime 

Whose  ghost  still  flies  the  Furies'  thong 
Down  the  waste  solitudes  of  Time ; 

Or  waif  from  young  Earth's  wonder-hour 
When  gods  found  mortal  maidens  fair, 

And  will  malign  was  joined  with  power 
Love's  kindly  laws  to  overbear. 

Phoebe!  is  all  it  has  to  say 
f  In  plaintive  cadence  o'er  and  o'er, 

Like  children  that  have  lost  their  way 

And  know  their  names,  but  nothing  more. 

Is  it  a  type,  since  nature's  lyre 

Vibrates  to  every  note  in  man, 
Of  that  insatiable  desire, 

Meant  to  be  so,  since  life  began  ? 

Or  a  fledged  satire,  sent  to  rasp 

Their  jaded  sense,  who,  tired  so  soon 

With  shifting  life's  doll-dresses,  grasp, 
Gray-bearded  babies,  at  the  moon  ? 


256  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [l88l 

I,  in  strange  lands  at  gray  of  dawn 

Wakeful,  have  heard  that  fruitless  plaint 

Through  Memory's  chambers  deep  withdrawn 
Renew  its  iterations  faint. 

So  nigh  !   yet  from  remotest  years 

It  seems  to  draw  its  magic,  rife 
With  longings  unappeased  and  tears 

Drawn  from  the  very  source  of  life. 


TO   THE   SAME 

Legation  of  the  United  States, 
London,  Sept.  5,  1881. 

Dear  Mr.  Gilder, — I  sent  off  the  verses  yesterday,  and 
now  write  in  great  haste  to  say  that  in  my  judgment 
the  stanza  beginning  "Or  waif  from  young  Earth's," 
etc.,  were  better  away.  Also  for  "  doom-divided  "  print 
"  doom-dissevered."  I  have  not  had  time  to  mull  over 
the  poem  as  I  should  like. 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

P.  S.  I  may  write  in  a  day  or  two  suppressing  more, 
after  I  have  had  time  to  think. 


TO   THE   SAME 

Legation  of  the  United  States, 
London,  Sept.  6, 1881. 

Dear  Mr.  Gilder, — I  bother  you  like  a  boy  with  his 
first  essay  in  verse.  I  wrote  yesterday  to  ask  the  omis 
sion  of  a  stanza— but  last  night,  being  sleepless,  as  old 
fellows  like  me  are  too  often  apt  to  be,  I  contrived  to 


l88l]  TO   R.  W.  GILDER  257 

make  a  stanza  which  had  been  tongue-tied  say  what  I 
wished. 

Let  it  go  thus, 

"Waif  of  the  young  World's  wonder-hour 

to  overbear,"  (comma). 
Then  go  on — 

"  Like  Progne,  did  it  feel  the  stress 
And  coil  of  the  prevailing  words 
Close  round  its  being  and  compress 
Man's  ampler  nature  to  a  bird's?" 

This  manages  the  transition,  which  was  wanting.     Per 
haps  this  might  follow  : 

"  One  only  memory  left  of  all 

The  motley  crowd  of  vanished  scenes, 
Hers — and  vain  impulse  to  recall 
By  repetition  what  it  means." 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   THE   SAME 

Legation  of  the  United  States, 
London,  Sept.  8,  1881. 

Dear  Mr.  Gilder, — This  is  positively  the  last !  I  wish 
to  omit  the  stanza  beginning  "  Or  a  winged  satire,"  etc. 
I  have  been  convinced  by  a  friend  whom  I  have  con 
sulted  that  it  was  a  cuckoo's  egg  in  my  nest.  Item. 
The  verse  that  had  bothered  me  most  of  all  was  this : 

"  Listen,  breath  held,  but  no  reply,"  etc. 

I  wished  to  have  a  distinct  pause  after  "  listen,"  in  ac- 
II.-i; 


258  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [l88l 

cordance  with  the  sense.  Somehow  I  could  not  get  the 
right,  and  "  breath  held  "  was  clearly  the  wrong  one, 
awkward,  and  with  the  same  vowel  sound  in  both 
halves.  Print — 

"  Listen :  no  whisper  of  reply 

Is  heard  of  doom-dissevered  mate." 

No ;  that  won't  do  either,  with  its  assonance  of 
"heard"  and  "dissewra/" — so,  though  I  prefer  "dis 
severed  "  for  sense,  I  will  go  back  to  the  original  word 
"  divided,"  which  I  suppose  was  instinctive. 

This  is  positively  my  last  dying  speech  and  confes 
sion.  You  need  fear  nothing  more  from  me.  I  fancy 
you  ducking  your  head  for  fear  of  another  rap  every 
time  the  postman  comes. 

I  hope  you  will  like  my  little  poem,  and  tell  me  so  if 
you  don't. 

Kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Gilder. 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   THE    SAME 

Legation  of  the  United  States, 
London,  Sept.  12,  1881. 

Dear  Mr.  Gilder, — With  (I  am  sorry  to  say)  not  un 
heard-of  selfishness  I  forgot,  in  writing  about  my  own 
little  affairs,  a  much  more  important  one  of  Aubrey  de 
Vere.  He  is  going  to  send  you  a  poem  (founded  on  an 
Irish  legend)  which  is  sure  to  be  good — though  whether 
good  enough  I  cannot  say,  for  I  like  him  so  much  and 
have  liked  him  so  long  that  I  can't  tell  for  the  life  of 
me  why  and  how  he  falls  short.  I  told  him  I  feared 


l88lj  TO   MRS.  LOWELL  259 

the  poem  would  be  too  long  for  you,  etc.,  etc.,  but  the 
dear  old  boy  has  a  self-possession  of  hope  which  would 
be  creditable  at  ten  years.  He  is  naturally  anxious 
about  his  manuscript,  and  I  beg  you  to  be  careful  of  it  and 
return  it  to  Mr.  Norton  at  Cambridge  if  you  shouldn't 
want  it. 

As  I  am  writing,  I  add  that  if  you  think  (as  I  am  half 

inclined) 

"  No  whisper  of  reply 

Comes  from  its  doom-dissevered  mate  " 

better  than  the  other  reading,  print  it  so. 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

We  are  sadly  anxious  to-day  about  the  President. 

TO   MRS.  LOWELL 

Victoria  Hotel,  Dresden,  Oct.  16,  1881. 
...  It  is  just  twenty-five  years  since  I  was  in  Dres 
den,  and  there  is  something  sad  in  coming  back  an  old 
man  to  a  place  familiar  to  you  when  much  younger. 
But  I  must  take  up  my  diary  again.  When  I  wrote 
yesterday  [from  Weimar]  I  was  uncertain  whether  I 
should  see  Goethe's  house  (I  mean  the  inside  of  it)  or 
not.  At  any  rate,  I  would  see  the  garden-house  he 
built  when  he  first  came  to  Weimar.  So  I  took  the 
drollest  little  bow-legged  valet- de- place,  who  touched 
his  hat  and  called  me  Excellent  whenever  he  could 
catch  my  eye.  I  had  taken  him  with  the  express  stipu 
lation  that  he  shouldn't  open  his  mouth,  and  this  was 
the  compromise  he  made.  Our  walk  led  through  the 


260  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [l88l 

Park  and  along  the  Ilm.  The  Park,  except  the  paths, 
is  left  pretty  much  to  nature.  It  is  very  charming. 
The  garden-house  turned  out  to  be  about  twenty  min 
utes'  walk.  ...  It  was  a  very  simple  affair  of  stone, 
about  twenty  feet  square,  roughly  built,  but  beautifully 
set  on  the  edge  of  a  meadow  sloping  to  the  river.  It 
was  odd  to  find  that  my  associations  with  Weimar, 
which  are  so  vivid  that  I  seem  to  have  seen  the  persons 
and  can  hardly  persuade  myself  I  did  not  know  Frau 
von  Stein,  should  be  more  than  a  century  old.  Goethe 
was  building  this  house  just  as  our  Revolution  began. 
When  I  got  back  I  found  a  card  from  Baron  v.  Brincken, 
informing  me  that  Herr  v.  Goethe  would  be  glad  to  see 
me  at  half-past  one.  So  I  saw  what  I  went  to  Weimar 
for  after  all.  There  was  a  small  collection  of  antique 
gems,  of  drawings  and  engravings,  and  of  very  good 
majolica.  There  were  also  some  bronzes,  none  of  them 
remarkable.  The  Studienzimmer  was  what  interested 
me  most — the  plain  little  table  and  desk,  with  the  chair 
waiting  its  master.  Out  of  it  opened  the  sleeping-room 
with  the  bed  in  which  he  died  —  about  as  large  as  a 
Spanish  alcoba,  and  showing  how  little  good  air  has  to 
do  with  long  life.  Everything  was  very  dingy,  and  the 
study  especially  ill-lighted.  I  have  an  engraving  of  it 
somewhere,  so  that  I  have  been  wondering  ever  since 
if  I  had  not  seen  it  before. 

I  am  going  out  presently  to  see  the  Sistine  Madonna 
and  a  few  other  old  friends  again.  They  will  not  have 
changed  or  grown  older.  .  .  . 


l88lj  TO    R.  W.   GILDER  261 


TO   R.  W.  GILDER 

HEP"  By  Hotel  Danieli, 
U3P3  iaP"  Venice,  Oct.  24,  1881. 

Dear  Mr.  Gilder, — If  you  put  up  a  warning  hand  to 
point  at  your  new  address — then,  a  fortiori,  I  may,  who 
am  in  Venice.  It  is  raining :  never  mind,  I  am  in  Ven 
ice  !  Sirocco  is  doing  his  worst :  I  defy  him,  I  am  in 
Venice !  I  am  horribly  done  at  my  hotel :  but  what 
could  I  expect  ?  I  am  in  Venice !  But  it  is  base  in  me 
to  crow  in  this  way  over  a  young  poet  who  perhaps 
would  be  more  in  keeping  here  than  my  gray  hairs  can 
hope  to  be.  I  find  on  looking  back  that  I  have  crowed 
once  oftener  than  the  cock  crowed  at  St.  Peter ;  and  as 
he  (I  mean  the  bird)  was  divinely  inspired,  he  probably 
went  to  the  precise  limit  that  human  nature  could  bear. 
Forgive  me.  I  change  my  figure.  I  have  seen  a  grave 
horse  of  thirty  years,  and  a  parson's,  too,  gallop  and 
fling  up  his  heels  and  roll  and  do  all  kinds  of  indecor 
ous  things  on  being  turned  into  the  pasture.  I  am  that 
animal — or  even  lengthen  my  ears  if  you  will  and  I  am 
that  animal — I  am  an  escaped  prisoner  of  the  Bastile, 
I  am  a  fugitive  slave,  more  than  all,  I  am  an  American 
public  nigger  out  for  a  holiday !  And  I  am  come  here 
to  find  a  bateau  mouche  plying  up  and  down  the  Grand 
Canal ! 

Thank  you  for  the  printed  copy.  Of  course  I  am  dis 
gusted  with  it.  Print  somehow  is  like  a  staring  plaster- 
cast  compared  with  the  soft  and  flowing  outlines,  the 
modest  nudity  of  the  manuscript  clay.  But  it  is  a  real 
pleasure  to  me  that  you  like  it. 


262  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [l88l 

"Robins  ring"  is  right,  and  whenever  you  spend  a 
June  night  at  Elmwood  (as  I  hope  you  will  so  soon  as 
I  am  safe  there  once  more)  you  will  recognize  its  truth. 
There  are  hundreds  of  'em  going  at  once,  like  the  bells 
here  last  night  (Sunday),  with  a  perfect  indecency  of 
disregard  for  rhythm  or  each  other.  Mr.  Burroughs,  I 
hear,  has  been  criticising  my  knowledge  of  out-doors. 
God  bless  his  soul !  I  had  been  living  in  the  country 
thirty  years  (I  fancy  it  must  be)  before  he  was  born, 
and  if  anybody  ever  lived  in  the  open  air  it  was  I.  So 
be  at  peace.  By  the  way,  I  took  Progne  merely  be 
cause  she  was  changed  into  a  little  bird.  I  should  have 
preferred  a  male,  and  was  thinking  of  a  fellow  (trans 
formed,  I  think,  by  Medea),  but  can't  remember  his 
name.  While  I  am  about  it,  I  question  wee.  Is  it 
English?  I  had  no  dictionary  at  hand.  But  there  is 
one  atrocity  — "  wtf/</ered."  Why  do  you  give  in  to 
these  absurdities?  Why  abscond  into  this  petty  creek 
from  the  great  English  main  of  orthography  ?  Tis  not 
quite  so  bad  as  "  I  don't  know  as  "  for  "  I  don't  know 
that"  but  grazes  it  and  is  of  a  piece  with  putting  one's 
knife  in  one's  mouth. 

As  for  your  "  remuneration  "  —  it  was  most  gener 
ous,  and  I  had  a  kind  of  qualm  as  I  iinpeticosed  your 
gratillity.  I  fear  for  authorship  with  these  luxurious 
rates. 

Thank  you  for  your  good  opinion  of  my  ministerial 
performances.  I  suppose  I  may  be  recalled,  just  as  I 
have  learned  to  be  easy  in  my  seat.  Such  is  the  lot  of 
an  American  Minister — he  fleeth  away  as  a  shadow  and 
hath  no  abiding  place.  Give  my  kindest  regards  to  Mrs. 


l88i]  TO   MRS.  LOWELL  263 

Gilder  and  the  Boy.     As  for  writing  a  sonnet — in  Ven 
ice  ?  !     Ask  me  to  saw  wood. 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

P.  S.  My  flock  of  JglPs  on  the  other  side  remind  me 
of  my  doves.  I  have  just  fed  them  at  my  balcony. 
They  came  in  scores,  their  wings  whistling  like  shafts 
of  Phoibos  and  so  beautiful !  Now  I  have  touched  the 
quick ;  I  see  you  wince  with  your  "  Union  Square," 
marry  come  up  ! 

TO   MRS.  LOWELL 

Hdtel  Bristol,  Rome,  Nov.  n,  1881. 

...  1  came  hither  yesterday  from  Florence  through 
beautiful  weather  .  .  .  and  a  country  which  is  to  me 
always  the  most  pathetic  in  the  world.  I  don't  know 
why,  but  the  desolation  of  Greece  touches  me  less 
nearly.  I  saw  Cortona  in  the  distance  sunning  its  long 
wall  on  the  slope  of  the  hill,  and  close  by  the  station 
were  some  roofs  all  gilt  with  lichen,  on  one  of  which  a 
pair  of  white  doves  were  philandering.  Then  Orvieto 
on  its  crag  .  .  .  and  queer,  nameless  little  burghs  that 
sought  the  hills  for  safety,  and  are  now,  consequently, 
too  safe  from  the  iron  highway.  Then  there  came 
slopes  smoky  with  olives,  which  somehow  are  quite 
another  thing  in  Italy  than  in  Spain,  and  the  groves 
of  oak  I  remembered  so  well  and  through  which  I  loi 
tered  in  a  vettura  so  many  years  ago. 

I  am  sitting  in  the  shadow  of  the  Barberini  as  I 
write,  and  am  growing  into  a  furious  socialist  at  the 
sight  of  these  upstart  palaces  that  shut  out  the  sun 
from  Diogenes.  .  .  . 


264  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [l68l 

TO   THE   SAME 

H6tel  Bristol,  Rome,  Nov.  13, 1881. 

.  .  .  My  windows  here  look  out  on  one  side  towards 
the  Barberini,  and  on  the  other  towards  the  old  Triton. 
.  ...  The  weather  is  as  fine  as  fine  can  be,  and  I  do 
nothing  with  commendable  assiduity  —  thawing  myself 
out  in  the  sun  like  a  winter  fly.  William  and  John* 
and  I  idle  about,  telling  over  old  stories  and  reviving 
old  associations.  .  .  . 

I  told  you  of  the  vaporetto  on  the  Grand  Canal  (be 
tween  ourselves,  it  was  only  sentimentally  disagreeable, 
and,  in  point  of  fact,  a  great  blessing  to  the  poorer 
class),  but  I  hesitate  to  tell  you  what  I  have  seen  here. 
— The  only  costumes  left  now  are  on  the  brazen 
faced  models,  and  one  sees  below — what  ?  Those  hate 
ful  boots  with  a  high  heel  in  the  midst  of  the  sole,  on 
which  they  tottle  about  as  on  peg-tops.  When  I  was 
first  here  every  peasant  woman  one  met  wore  sandals. 
I  have  always  hated  those  eternal  repetitions  of  women 
with  a  dirty  towel  on  their  heads  which  express  the 
highest  aspiration  and  conviction  of  modern  art — but 
this  is  like  the  cloven  hoof.  .  .  . 

Wordsworth  speaks  of  a  motion  this  way  or  that 
which  is  fateful — and  I  often  think  of  it  as  I  look  at 
pictures  and  statues,  and  try  to  make  out  what  it  is  that 
makes  some  eternally  fascinating  and  leaves  us  cold  be 
fore  the  rest.  It  is  so  little  and  it  is  everything — and 
the  earth  is  full  of  the  same  beauty  the  Greeks  and 

*  Mr.  William  W.  Story  and  Mr.  John  W.  Field. 


1882]  TO    R.  W.  GILDER  265 

Venetians  saw.     Why  should   they  be  the   only  ones 
that  ever  saw  it  ?  . 


TO   R.  W.  GILDER 
10  Lowndes  Square,  S.  W.,  Jan.  9,  1882. 

Dear  Mr.  Gilder, — I  forgot  all  about  the  photograph 
— my  misfortunes  in  the  way  of  engraved  portraiture 
(the  only  set-off  to  which  is  security  against  identifica 
tion  by  the  police)  having  made  me  callous,  if  not  indif 
ferent.  I  don't  know  which  you  have  got  from  Mrs. 
Carter — for  your  description  of  it  as  "sitting  in  a  chair" 
doesn't  help  me  much.  Pray,  what  should  the  poor 
thing  be  sitting  in  ?  Go  on  and  do  your  worst — or 
rather  (vanity  would  say)  your  prettiest.  The  Storys 
showed  me  an  old  photograph  of  myself  in  Rome  the 
other  day,  which  I  should  not  have  believed  taken  from 
me  but  for  their  assurance.  How  young  it  looked  !  and 
what  a  wealth  of  curls !  It  must  have  been  about  thirty 
years  old — I  mean  the  photograph.  Was  /  ever  thirty  ? 
It  seems  impossible,  though  folks  tell  me  I  am  no  more 
than  that  now.  Posthume  !  Posthume  ! 

I  don't  think  much  of  any  international  copyright  bill 
which  is  drawn  by  publishers — always  in  the  interest  of 
the  manufacturers  and  not  the  makers  of  books.  The 
clause  you  mention  was  no  doubt  meant  for  a  sop  to 
our  protectionists.  The  British  Government  has  already 
expressed  its  indifference  thereanent.  But  I  don't  see 
how  it  can  do  you  much  harm. 

I  have  just  heard  of  the  death  of  my  old  schoolmate 
Dana* — a  friend  of  more  than  fifty  years.  I  am  so  glad 

*  Mr.  Richard  Henry  Dana. 


266  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1882 

that  I  saw  him  in  Florence  and  Rome  lately — for  we 
never  expect  these  things.  He  was  a  very  able  and 
high-minded  man,  who  (if  Captain  111  had  not  so  much 
influence  in  politics)  should  have  been  one  of  the  Sen 
ators  from  Massachusetts.  But  he  would  never  conde 
scend  to  the  means  of  such  advancement,  and  I  dare 
say  is  the  happier  for  it  now. 

With  kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Gilder  and  young  Prince 

Aureole,  ,,  , 

Yours  always, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO  JOHN  W.  FIELD 

[London],  Jan.  17,  1882. 

...  I  was  greatly  startled  by  the  death  of  Dana,  of 
which  we  got  news  by  telegraph  before  hearing  that  he 
was  ill.  It  is  the  first  time  Death  has  so  distinctly 
nudged  me  with  his  elbow,  for,  though  four  of  my  own 
classmates  have  died  this  year,  he,  if  a  year  or  two  older 
than  I,  belonged  more  immediately  to  my  own  set,  and 
I  had  known  him  lifelong.  I  am  very  glad  now  that  I 
saw  as  much  of  him  as  I  did  in  Florence  and  Rome. 
He  is  a  very  great  loss  in  every  way — a  loss  to  the 
world  no  less  than  to  his  country  and  friends — and  he 
died  prematurely,  before  building  the  monument  for 
which  he  had  gathered  the  material.  He  never  had  the 
public  career  he  should  have  had,  both  for  his  own  sake 
and  ours,  and  it  was  from  a  quality  of  character  pushed 
to  excess.  He  was,  as  you  say,  a  "high-minded  man," 
but  he  was  more  than  that.  He  was  a  /^/^-minded 
man,  and  could  not  meet  his  fellows  on  such  terms 
(nowise  degrading)  as  is  needful  for  success  in  a  democ- 


1882]  TO   T.  B.  ALDRICH  267 

racy.  He  ought  to  have  been  Senator  from  Massachu 
setts,  Minister  to  England — indeed,  he  might  have  been 
almost  anything  but  for  this  weakness.  I  do  not  know 
that  he  would  have  been  happier  for  it,  but  at  least  the 
syllogism  of  expectation  would  have  been  more  com 
plete. 

What  you  tell  me  Mrs.  Dana  said  after  the  burial 
was  very  touching.  Take  care  of  yourself,  my  dear 
John.  The  lesson  for  us  is  to  close  ^tp,  and  I  think  we 
are  drawn  nearer  by  these  things — though  Death  seems 
less  solemn  than  he  used,  now  that  we  have  seen  him 
so  often  look  at  the  number  on  our  own  door,  as  he  was 
on  his  way  to  knock  at  a  neighbor's.  "Who  knows?" 
and  "Do  I  really  wish  it  may  be?"  are  all  that  the 
nineteenth  century  has  left  us  of  the  simple  faith  we 
began  life  with.  .  .  . 

TO  T.  B.  ALDRICH 

Legation  of  the  United  States, 

London,  May  8,  1882. 

Dear  Aldrich, — If  I  could,  how  gladly  I  would!* 
But  I  am  piecemealed  here  with  so  many  things  to  do 
that  I  cannot  get  a  moment  to  brood  over  anything  as 
it  must  be  brooded  over  if  it  is  to  have  wings.  It  is  as 
if  a  sitting  hen  should  have  to  mind  the  door-bell.  I 
speak  as  of  the  days  of  yEsop,  which  I  mention  lest  some 
critic  should  charge  me  with  not  knowing  what  a  mixed 
metaphor  was — or  rather  an  incongruous  conception. 

*  Mr.  Aldrich,  then  editor  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly,  had  asked 
Lowell  to  write  a  paper  upon  Mr.  Dana. 


268  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1882 

Now,  you  who  are  young  and  clever  will  at  once 
divine  what  I  mean  you  to  divine  from  that  last  sen 
tence — namely,  that  a  man  with  his  mind  in  so  self-con 
scious  a  state  as  that  can't  write  anything  to  advantage, 
and  I  should  wish  to  do  my  best  for  a  man  so  inti 
mately  associated  with  what  is  dearest  to  me.  No,  you 
must  wait  till  I  come  home  to  be  boycotted  in  my 
birthplace  by  my  Irish  fellow-citizens  (who  are  kind 
enough  to  teach  me  how  to  be  American),  who  fought 
all  our  battles  and  got  up  all  our  draft  riots.  Then,  in 
the  intervals  of  firing  through  my  loopholes  of  retreat, 
I  may  be  able  to  do  something  for  the  Atlantic. 

I  am  now  in  the  midst  of  the  highly  important  and 
engrossing  business  of  arranging  for  the  presentation  at 
Court  of  some  of  our  fair  citoyennes.  Whatever  else 
you  are,  never  be  a  Minister ! 

With  kind  regards  to  Mrs.  Aldrich, 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO  W.   D.   HOWELLS 
Ashridge,  Berkhampstead,  Dec.  21, 1882. 

Dear  Howells, — I  was  very  glad  to  get  your  letter, 
though  it  put  me  under  bonds  to  be  wiser  than  I  have 
ever  had  the  skill  to  be.  If  I  remember  rightly,  Pa- 
nurge's  doubts  were  increased  by  consulting  the  Ora 
cle,  but  how  did  the  Oracle  feel?  Did  it  ever  occur  to 
you  that  a  certain  share  of  our  sympathy  should  go  in 
that  direction  ? 

My  best  judgment  is  this,  and  like  all  good  judgment 
it  is  to  a  considerable  degree  on  both  sides  of  the  ques- 


1882]  TO   W.  D.   HOWELLS  269 

tion.  If  you  are  able  now,  without  overworking  mind 
or  body,  to  keep  the  wolf  from  the  door  and  to  lay  by 
something  for  a  rainy  day — and  I  mean,  of  course,  with 
out  being  driven  to  work  with  your  left  hand  because 
the  better  one  is  tired  out — I  should  refuse  the  offer,* 
or  should  hesitate  to  accept  it.  If  you  are  a  systematic 
worker,  independent  of  moods,  and  sure  of  your  genius 
whenever  you  want  it,  there  might  be  no  risk  in  accept 
ing.  You  would  have  the  advantage  of  a  fixed  income 
to  fall  back  on.  Is  this  a  greater  advantage  than  the 
want  of  it  would  be  as  a  spur  to  industry?  Was  not 
the  occasion  of  Shakespeare's  plays  (I  don't  say  the  mo 
tive  of  'em)  that  he  had  to  write  ?  And  are  any  of  us 
likely  to  be  better  inspired  than  he  ?  Does  not  inspira 
tion,  in  some  limited  sense  at  least,  come  with  the  ex 
ercise  thereof,  as  the  appetite  with  eating?  Is  not  your 
hand  better  for  keeping  it  in,  as  they  say  ?  A  profess 
orship  takes  a  great  deal  of  time,  and,  if  you  teach  in 
any  more  direct  way  than  by  lectures,  uses  up  an  im 
mense  stock  of  nerves.  Your  inevitable  temptation  (in 
some  sort  your  duty)  will  be  to  make  yourself  learned — 
which  you  haven't  the  least  need  to  be  as  an  author  (if 
you  only  have  me  at  your  elbow  to  correct  your  English 
now  and  then,  naughty  boy !).  If  you  can  make  your 
professorship  a  thing  apart — but  can  you  and  be  honest  ? 
I  believe  the  present  generation  doesn't  think  I  was 
made  for  a  poet,  but  I  think  I  could  have  gone  nearer 
convincing  'em  if  I  had  not  estranged  the  muse  by  don 
ning  a  professor's  gown.  I  speak  of  myself  because 

*  Of  a  Professorship  of  Literature. 


270  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1883 

you  wanted  my  experience.  I  am  naturally  indolent, 
and  being  worked  pretty  hard  in  the  College,  was  will 
ing  to  be  content  with  the  amount  of  work  that  was 
squeezed  out  of  me  by  my  position,  and  let  what  my 
nature  might  otherwise  have  forced  me  into  go.  As  I 
said  before,  if  you  can  reckon  on  your  own  tempera 
ment,  accept.  If  you  have  a  doubt,  don't.  I  think 
you  will  divine  what  I  am  driving  at. 

I  find  everybody  here  reading  your  books,  and  you 
know  very  well  how  much  pleasure  that  gives  me.  They 
wish  to  see  you,  and  I  hope  when  you  come  back  you 
will  stay  and  let  'em  do  it.  I  wish  you  could  know  my 
hostess,  for  instance — noble  in  all  senses  of  the  word.  I 
am  staying  here  for  a  few  days  with  a  large  party  in  a 
house  as  big  as  a  small  town,  and  a  beautiful  country 
of  hill  and  dale  and  gray  birch  woods.  Enough  to  say 
that  there  was  once  a  convent  here.  The  monks  al 
ways  had  an  eye  for  country. 

You  will  have  to  be  very  fine  when  you  show  your 
self  in  England,  to  look  like  the  portrait  I  have  painted 
of  you — but  I  am  willing  to  take  the  venture. 

Inexorable  lunch  has  sounded,  and  I  must  say  good- 
by.  I  should  say,  on  the  whole — it  is  safe  to  ask  my 
advice,  but  not  to  follow  it.  But  then  people  never  do. 

.  .  .  Love  to  all. 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO  F.  J.  CHILD 

10  Lowndes  Square,  S.W.,  Feb.  2,  1883. 
Dear   Ciarli, — Thank  you    over   and   over   again    for 


1883]  TO   F.  J.  CHILD  271 

your  beautiful  book,*  the  only  fault  I  can  find  with 
which  is  the  "  Esq."  you  have  added  to  my  name, 
and  which  seems  to  hold  me  at  arm's  length  from  you, 
as  it  were.  But  I  won't  be  held  there,  do  what  you 
will! 

I  have  been  reading  it  with  delight  and  wonder. 
The  former  you  will  understand  better  than  anybody  ; 
the  latter,  called  forth  by  the  enormous  labor  you  have 
spent  on  it,  you  will  be  modestly  incredulous  about. 
You  have  really  built  an  imperishable  monument,  and 
I  rejoice  as  heartily  as  the  love  I  bear  you  gives  me 
the  right  in  having  lived  to  see  its  completion.  I 
did  not  know  you  were  to  begin  printing  so  soon, 
and  I  wish  my  name  to  appear  on  the  list  of  sub 
scribers,  as  it  ought.  I  hope  it  is  not  too  late.  I  am 
particularly  gratified  with  the  dedication,  which  will 
delight  Furnivall,  and  which  he  in  all  ways  so  truly 
deserves. 

I  am  getting  old,  and  my  beard  has  now  more  white 
than  brown  in  it,  but  I  on  the  whole  enjoy  my  life  here, 
and  feel  that  in  some  ways  I  have  been  and  am  useful. 
London  I  like  beyond  measure.  The  wonderful  move 
ment  of  life  here  acts  as  a  constant  stimulus — and  I  am 
beginning  to  need  one.  The  climate  also  suits  me  bet 
ter  than  any  I  ever  lived  in.  I  have  only  to  walk  a 
hundred  yards  from  my  door  to  see  green  grass  and 
hear  the  thrushes  sing  all  winter  long.  These  are  a 
constant  delight,  and  I  sometimes  shudder  to  think  of 
the  poor  dead  weeds  and  grasses  I  have  seen  shivering 

*  The  first  part  of  "  The  English  and  Scottish  Popular  Bal 
lads." 


272  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1883 

in  the  cast-iron  earth  at  home.  But  I  shall  come  back 
to  them  to  comfort  them  out  of  my  own  store  of 
warmth  with  as  hearty  a  sympathy  as  ever. 

I  need  not  tell  you  how  glad  I  was  of  the  revulsion 
in  our  politics.  I  think  we  shall  keep  all  the  ground 
we  have  won,  and  before  long  bring  the  country  for 
ward — or  back — to  better  ways.  If  not,  I  see  no  hope. 
Spain  shows  us  to  what  a  civil  service  precisely  like 
our  own  will  bring  a  country  that  ought  to  be  power 
ful  and  prosperous.  It  wasn't  the  Inquisition,  nor  the 
Expulsion  of  Jews  or  Moriscos,  but  simply  the  Boss 
System,  that  has  landed  Spain  where  she  is. 

Give  my  love  to  all  who  care  for  it,  and  be  sure  that 
I  am  always,  as  I  have  always  been, 

Most  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO   C.   E.   NORTON 

10  Lowndes  Sq.,  S.  W.,  April  22,  1883. 
...  If  one  wait  for  the  right  time  to  come  before 
writing,  the  right  time  never  comes.  I  have  been  sit 
ting  like  Horace's  rusticus  waiting  for  the  stream  of 
daily  occupations  to  run  dry,  to  be  convinced  only  of 
the  labitur  et  labetur.  So  I  will  prorogue  no  longer,  but 
write  a  line  to  send  you  my  love  and  to  thank  you  for 
the  "  Carlyle-Emerson  Correspondence,"  which  I  have 
read  with  pathetic  interest.  You  can  well  imagine  how 
many  fading  frescos  it  brightened  in  the  chambers  of 
my  memory.  It  pleased,  but  not  surprised  me  in  what 
an  ampler  ether  and  diviner  air  the  mind  and  thought 
of  Emerson  dwelt,  than  those  that  were  habitual  to  his 


1 883]  TO    C.  E.  NORTON  273 

correspondent.  ...  I  suppose  you  have  read  by  this 
time  Mrs.  Carlyle's  "  Correspondence."  A  very  pain 
ful  book  in  more  ways  than  one.  There  are  disclosures 
there  that  never  should  have  been  made,  as  if  they  had 
been  caught  up  from  the  babblings  of  discharged  house 
maids.  One  blushes  in  reading,  and  feels  like  a  person 
caught  listening  at  the  keyhole.  .  .  . 

I  linger  on  here,  partly  from  vis  inertia  and  partly 
because  I  have  been,  and  may  again  be,  of  some  use. 
A  year  ago  it  would  have  been  easy  for  the  wrong  man 
to  have  made  trouble  between  the  two  countries.  The 
Irish  howl  against  me  at  home,  by  the  way,  received  its 
signal  from  here. 

I  like  London,  and  have  learned  to  see  as  I  never  saw 
before  the  advantage  of  a  great  capital.  It  establishes 
one  set  of  weights  and  measures,  moral  and  intellectual, 
for  the  whole  country.  It  is,  I  think,  a  great  drawback 
for  us  that  we  have  as  many  as  we  have  States.  The 
flow  of  life  in  the  streets,  too — sublimer,  it  seems  to  me 
often,  than  the  tides  of  the  sea — gives  me  a  kind  of  stim 
ulus  that  I  find  agreeable  even  if  it  prompt  to  nothing. 
For  I  am  growing  old,  dear  Charles,  and  haven't  the  go 
in  me  I  once  had.  Then  I  have  only  to  walk  a  hun 
dred  yards  from  my  door  to  be  in  Hyde  Park,  where, 
and  in  Kensington  Gardens,  I  can  tread  on  green  turf 
and  hear  the  thrushes  sing  all  winter.  I  often  think  of 
what  you  said  to  me  about  the  birds  here.  There  are 
a  great  many  more  and  they  sing  more  perennially  than 
ours.  As  for  the  climate,  it  suits  me  better  than  any  I 
ever  lived  in,  and  for  the  inward  weather,  I  have  never 
seen  civilization  at  so  high  a  level  in  some  respects  as 
II.— iS 


274  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1883 

here.  In  plain  living  and  high  thinking  I  fancy  we  have, 
or  used  to  have,  the  advantage,  and  I  have  never  seen 
society,  on  the  whole,  so  good  as  I  used  to  meet  at  our 
Saturday  Club. 

Always  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO    THE    SAME 

London,  Dec.  4,  1883. 

.  .  .  On  Saturday  I  went  down  to  Cambridge  to  see 
"  The  Birds."  It  was  really  delightful,  and  more  in 
structive  than  a  tragedy,  because  its  wild  fancy  is  hard 
er  to  conceive  in  visible  types.  The  birds  seemed  to 
have  been  left  inadvertently  behind  by  a  dream — such 
an  unreal  reality  had  they  to  the  waking  sense,  and  such 
a  feeling  had  one  that  one  had  seen  them  somewhere 
before  in  some  Zoo  of  Dreamland.  I  was  glad  to  find 
that  I  knew  more  Greek  than  I  expected,  though  that 
was  hardly  more  than  Swift  bids  us  in  his  supplement 
to  the  "  Beatitudes."  They  are  now  thinking  of  giving 
the  "CEdipus  Rex." 

I  can  see  that  the  Democrats  have  come  to  the  con 
clusion  that  it  would  be  wise  to  have  some  principles 
about  them  in  case  of  a  sudden  call,  and  this  I  think 
increases  the  probability  of  my  being  your  neighbor 
again  eighteen  months  hence.  A  worse  thing  might 
befall  me. 

I  am  not  yet  rector  of  St.  Andrew's.  There  is  a  ques 
tion  of  eligibility.  You  will  know  what  I  mean  when  I 
say  that  I  am  utterly  indifferent  except  on  the  score  of 
the  quinquennial  College  Catalogue.  By  the  way,  please 


1883]  TO   JAMES    B.  THAYER  275 

say  h  qui  de  droit  to  note  me  as  Member  of  Spanish 
Academy  and  of  Philosophical  Society  at  Philadelphia. 
I  wish  to  justify  Parson  Wilbur's  augury,  now  nearly 
forty  years  old.  .  .  . 


TO  JAMES  B.  THAYER 

London,  Dec.  24,  1883. 

Dear  Mr.  Thayer, — Many  thanks  for  your  Rettung,  as 
Lessing  would  have  called  it,  which  is  excellently  done, 
and  just  both  to  Emerson  and  his  critic.  From  what  I 
have  heard  it  was  much  needed,  for  though,  of  course, 
the  personal  equation  is  to  be  allowed  for  in  all  criti 
cism,  there  seems  to  be  a  tendency  in  America  (fatal  to 
sound  judgment)  to  treat  it  as  if  it  were  the  same  as 
personal  bias. 

As  for  Emerson's  verse  (though  he  has  written  some 
as  exquisite  as  any  in  the  language)  I  suppose  we  must 
give  it  up.  That  he  had  a  sense  of  the  higher  harmo 
nies  of  language  no  one  that  ever  heard  him  lecture  can 
doubt.  The  structure  of  his  prose,  as  one  listened  to 
it,  was  as  nobly  metrical  as  the  King  James  version  of 
the  Old  Testament,  and  this  made  it  all  the  more  puz 
zling  that  he  should  have  been  absolutely  insensitive  to 
the  harmony  of  verse.  For  it  was  there  he  failed — 
single  verses  are  musical  enough.  I  never  shall  forget 
the  good-humoredly  puzzled  smile  with  which  he  once 
confessed  to  me  his  inability  to  apprehend  the  value  of 
accent  in  verse. 

I  liked  particularly  what  you  say  about  his  mastery  of 
English.  No  man  in  my  judgment  ever  had  a  greater, 


276  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1883 

and  I  greatly  doubt  whether  Matthew  Arnold  is  quite 
capable  (in  the  habit  of  addressing  a  jury  as  he  always 
is)  of  estimating  the  style  of  one  who  conversed  with 
none  but  the  masters  of  his  mother-tongue.  Emerson's 
instinct  for  the  best  word  was  infallible.  Wherever  he 
found  one  he  froze  to  it,  as  we  say  in  our  admirable 
vernacular.  I  have  sometimes  found  that  he  had  added 
to  his  cabinet  the  one  good  word  in  a  book  he  had  read. 
Sir  T.  Browne  is  the  only  man  I  know  of  worthy  to  be 
named  with  [him]  in  the  imaginative  felicities  and  au 
dacities — the  O  altitudes,  as  he  himself  would  have  called 
them — of  speech.  I  think  that  Matthew  Arnold,  like 
Renan  (who  has  had  an  evil  influence  over  him),  is  apt 
to  think  the  superfmz  as  good  as  the  fine,  or  better  even 
than  that. 

Look  at  the  list  of  prophetic  honors  with  which  Par 
son  Wilbur  has  decorated  himself  in  the  preface  to  the 
"  Biglow  Papers,"  and  you  will  condole  with  me  in  being 
excluded  by  my  official  position  from  the  rectorship  of 
St.  Andrew's.  As  a  lawyer,  you  will  be  amused  to  know 
that  it  is  my  extra-territoriality  (an  awful  word  and  fit 
to  conjure  with  !)  that  makes  me  ineligible.  If  I  picked 
his  saintship's  pocket — fancy  stealing  from  a  Scottish 
saint ! — I  could  snap  my  fingers  at  the  local  tribunals. 
So  I  shall  never  be  able  to  read  Univ.  Sanct.  Andr. 
Scot.  Dom.  Rect.*  Couldn't  they  count  me  as  they  do 
Louis  XVII.,  though  I  never  reigned? 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

*  In  the  Quinquennial  Catalogue  of  Harvard  University. 


1884]     TO   C.  E.  NORTON,  JOHN  W.  FIELD,  AND    F.  J.  CHILD       277 

Alas  for  the  Holmes  House,*  so  dear  and  sacred  in 
my  memory  ! 

TO  C.  E.  NORTON 

London,  31  Lowndes  Square,  Jan.  11,  1884. 
.  .  .  We  have  been  having  a  very  mild  winter,  with 
thrushes  and  robins  in  full  song.  I  often  think  of  what 
you  said  to  me  years  ago  about  English  singing-birds.  I 
remember  I  went  to  the  Waverley  Oaks  and  made  a 
list  of  those  I  heard  there,  which  pretty  well  matched 
the  catalogue  in  the  "  Squier  of  Low  Degre."  But  you 
were  right.  In  early  summer  every  bush  here  is  musical. 
It  is  partly  older  civilization  (there  are  few  song-birds 
in  the  woods)  and  partly  climate.  The  thrushes  twitch 
out  earth-worms  here  all  winter  long,  and  constantly  re 
mind  me  of  their  cousins  our  robins.  .  .  . 

TO   JOHN  W.  FIELD 

[London],  Jan.  19,  1884. 

...  I  wonder,  by  the  way,  when  we  shall  see  an 
American  politician  able  to  appreciate  and  shrewd 
enough  to  act  on  Curran's  saying  about  his  country 
men,  that  "An  Irishman  is  the  worst  fellow  in  the 
world  to  run  away  from."  .  .  . 

TO   F.  J.  CHILD 

10  Lowndes  Square,  1884. 
Dear  Ciarli, —  .  .  .  When  I  got  up  this  morning  it 


*  One  of  the  fine  Old  Cambridge  houses,  then  about  to  be  pulled 
down. 


278  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1884 

was  snowing,  and  I  had  been  lying  for  some  time  watch 
ing  the  flakes  fluttering  up  and  down,  like  the  ghosts  of 
moths  seeking  vainly  the  flowers  they  used  to  pillage, 
and  thinking  of  home,  as  I  always  do  when  it  snows. 
Almost  my  earliest  recollection  is  of  a  snow-storm  and 
putting  crumbs  on  the  window-sill  for  the  redbreasts 
that  never  came.  Yesterday  there  was  one  singing 
cheerily  in  Kensington  Gardens.  A  thrush,  too,  was 
piping  now  and  then,  and  the  grass  was  as  green  as 
May.  I  think  the  climate  more  than  anything  else 
keeps  me  here.  It  is  the  best  I  have  ever  seen — at 
any  rate  the  best  for  me,  and  the  vapory  atmosphere 
is  divine  in  its  way — always  luminous,  and  always  giv 
ing  the  distance  that  makes  things  tolerable.  But  I 
have  pangs  sometimes.  .  .  . 

I  have  no  news  except  that  my  official  extra-territori- 
ality  will,  perhaps,  prevent  my  being  rector  at  St.  An 
drews,  because  it  puts  me  beyond  the  reach  of  the  Scot 
tish  courts  in  case  of  malversation  in  office.  How  to 
rob  a  Scottish  university  suggests  a  serious  problem.  I 
was  pleased  with  the  election  and  the  pleasant  way  it 
was  spoken  of  here,  though  I  did  not  want  the  place. 
Had  I  known  what  I  know  now,  I  should  not  have  al 
lowed  myself  to  be  put  up.  But  I  was  in  Paris,  and 
had  forgotten  among  the  bookstalls  that  I  was  an  Ex 
cellency.  .  .  . 

TO   GEORGE   PUTNAM 

London,  April  8,  1884. 

...  On  Monday  we  go  to  Edinburgh,  where  they 
are  to  have  a  most  emphatic  tercentenary,  and  make 


1884]  TO    C.   E.   NORTON  279 

doctors  enough  for  the  three  centuries  to  come.  This 
will  be  my  fourth  gown,  so  that  I  beat  Dogberry  by 
two.  I  shall  be  able  to  keep  myself  warm  without  Har 
vard.*  .  .  . 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

31  Lowndes  Square,  S.W., 
Easter  Sunday,  April  13,  1884. 

Dear  Charles, — How  strange  a  vision  rose  before  me 
in  the  two  letters  you  enclosed !  I  thought  of  that  lit 
tle  picture  of  Rossetti's  that  you  have,  where  the  two 
lovers,  walking  in  the  selva  oscura,  meet  the  ghosts  of 
their  old  selves.  And  what  a  foreign  yet  familiar  thing 
the  ghost  of  one's  old  self  is.  It  is  memory  with  its 
sharp  edges  renewed,  memory  without  any  softening 
perspective.  But  one  must  learn  to  face  these  reve- 
nants  from  the  past.  How  vividly  my  old  study  under 
the  roof  (where  you  first  knew  me)  comes  back,  and  the 
dreary  year  I  dragged  through  there  thirty  years  ago 
in  solitary  confinement,  finding  a  strange  consolation  in 
repeating  the  service  for  the  dead  which  I  had  learned 
by  heart.  I  see  the  old  scribblings  on  the  wall  which  I 
had  traced  there  as  prisoners  are  wont.  .  .  .  I  remem 
ber  the  ugly  fancy  I  had  sometimes  that  I  was  another 
person,  and  used  to  hesitate  at  the  door  when  I  came 
back  from  my  late  night  walks,  lest  I  should  find  the 
real  owner  of  the  room  sitting  in  my  chair  before  the 
fire.  A  well-nigh  hermit  life  I  had  led  till  then,  and  my 
fate  often  seems  to  me  a  strange  one — to  be  snatched 

*  Harvard  conferred  upon  him  the  honorary  degree  of  LL.D.  at 
her  Commencement  in  June  of  this  year. 


280  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1884 

away  and  set  down  in  the  midst  of  Babylon  the  great 
city,  obliged  to  interest  myself  in  what  to  me  are  the 
mirages  of  life,  and,  above  all,  to  make  speeches  (which 
I  loathe),  and  to  be  praised  for  them,  which  makes  it 
more  bitter.  But  for  my  sense  of  humor,  I  couldn't 
stand  it.  I  feel  that  my  life  has  been  mainly  wasted 
— that  I  have  thrown  away  more  than  most  men  ever 
had ;  but  I  have  never  been  able  to  shake  off  the  in 
dolence  (I  know  not  whether  to  call  it  intellectual  or 
physical)  that  I  inherited  from  my  father.  .  .  . 

TO   MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD 

31  Lowndes  Square,  S.  W.,  Oct.  9,  1884. 

Dear  Mrs.  Clifford, —  .  .  .  How  delightful  it  is  to  have 
woman  friends — they  are  such  impartial  critics.  No, 
I  am  not  a  genius,  and  very  far  from  thinking  myself 
one.  I  was  half  meant  for  one,  but  only  half.  A  genius 
has  the  gift  of  falling  in  love  with  the  side-face  of  truth, 
going  mad  for  it,  sacrificing  all  for  it.  But  I  must  see 
the  full  face,  and  then  the  two  sides  have  such  different 
expressions  that  I  begin  to  doubt  which  is  the  sincere 
and  cannot  surrender  myself. 

I  was  very  sorry  that  I  could  not  tea  with  you  yes 
terday,  but  I  got  home  too  late  and  fearfully  tired.  I 
shall  try  to  find  you  this  afternoon. 

Yes,  your  note  was  a  little  extravagant,  but  I  could 
not  help  liking  it  all  the  same.  My  address  would  have 
been  far  better  if  I  had  been  plain  J.  R.  L.  and  not  His 

Excellency. 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


1884]  TO   C.  E.  NORTON  281 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

31  Lowndes  Square,  S.  W.,  Oct.  17,  1884. 
...  I  send  you  a  copy  of  my  address  at  Birming 
ham.  *  It  has  made  a  kind  of  (mildish)  sensation, 
greatly  to  my  surprise.  I  couldn't  conceive,  as  I  told 
Du  Maurier,  that  I  had  made  so  great  a  splash  with 
so  small  a  pebble.  I  hear  that  even  the  G.  O.  M. 
has  read  it  with  interest.  It  wasn't  revised  (as  they 
say  it  was)  by  me.  I  did  but  insert  some  passages 
I  spoke,  but  which  were  not  in  the  notes  given  to  the 
press. 

The  most  interesting  part  of  my  visit  to  Birming 
ham  was  a  call  I  made  by  appointment  on  Cardinal 
Newman.  He  was  benignly  courteous,  and  we  excel- 
lencied  and  eminenced  each  other  by  turns.  A  more 
gracious  senescence  I  never  saw.  There  was  no  "  mon 
umental  pomp,"  but  a  serene  decay,  like  that  of  some 
ruined  abbey  in  a  woodland  dell,  consolingly  forlorn.  I 
was  surprised  to  find  his  head  and  features  smaller  than 
I  expected  —  modelled  on  lines  of  great  vigor,  but  re 
duced  and  softened  by  a  certain  weakness,  as  if  a  pow 
erfully  masculine  face  had  been  painted  in  miniature 


*  On  Democracy.  Mr.  Lowell  was  the  guest,  during  his  stay  at 
Birmingham,  of  Mr.  Wilson  King.  "  Professor  Mahaffy,  of  Dub 
lin,  was  also  my  guest  at  the  time,"  writes  Mr.  King,  "  and  the 
two  '  took  to  '  each  other  at  once,  and  I  never  heard  so  much 
good  talk  in  four  days  before  or  since.  Mahaffy  went  off  in  the 
morning,  and  when,  somewhat  later,  I  was  driving  Mr.  Lowell  to 
the  station,  he  put  his  hand  on  my  knee  and  said,  '  I  think,  on 
the  whole,  that  is  the  most  delightful  fellow  I  ever  met,  and  I 
wish  you'd  tell  him  I  said  so.'  Of  course  it  was  pleasant  for  me 
to  have  such  testimony  to  the  success  of  my  party.  When  I 
told  Mahaffy,  his  characteristic  reply  was,  '  Poor  Lowell,  never 
to  have  met  an  Irishman  before.' " 


282  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1884 

by  Malbone.  He  was  very  kindly  and  sympathetic — 
his  benignity  as  well  as  his  lineaments  reminding  me 
of  the  old  age  of  Emerson.  He  has  not  been  able  to 
preach,  he  told  me,  for  two  years.  .  .  . 


TO   THOMAS   HUGHES 

31  Lowndes  Square,  S.  W.,  Oct.  20, 
Dear  Friend, — I  send  back  your  boy's  letter,  which 
gave  the  old  man  real  pleasure.  It  even  encouraged 
him  to  read  one  of  the  "  Biglow  Papers  "  aloud  to  his 
naval  attache  yesterday,  who  seemed  interested  by 
the  unwonted  performance  of  his  chief.  He  (the  old 
man)  was  rather  surprised  with  a  certain  pithiness  in 
the  poem,  and  with  the  quantity  of  meaning  he  used 
to  have  in  himself.  As  his  habitual  feeling  is  that 
he  has  never  done  anything,  it  is  not  disagreeable 
now  and  then  to  find  somebody  who  thinks  that  he 
has. 

I  am  in  the  midst  of  Froude — two  new  volumes  of 
Carlyle.  Very  interesting  I  find  them,  and  him  more 
problematic  than  ever,  but  fine  on  the  whole.  A  kind 
of  sentimental  Ajax  furens.  I  don't  think  that  sincerity 
towards  his  hero  justifies  Froude  in  printing  Carlyle's 
diatribes  (result  of  dyspepsia  mainly) — about  Gladstone, 
for  example.  In  a  world  where  there  is  so  much  una 
voidable  pain,  why  add  to  the  avoidable?  Gladstone 
won't  mind,  but  his  wife  and  daughters? 
With  love  to  your  wife, 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


1884]  TO    MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD  283 

TO   MRS.  W.  K.    CLIFFORD 

31  Lowndes  Square,  S.  W.,  Nov.  9,  1884. 

...  I  enjoyed  my  visit  to  the  country.  I  was  among 
friendly  people  who  all  bewailed  the  chance  of  my  be 
ing  recalled,  and  one  charming  person  told  me  that  "  all 
the  women  of  England  would  rise  as  one  man,  if  I  were." 
I  had  no  notion  how  charming  I  was — had  you  ? 

As  for  whether  I  shall  be  or  not — I  mean  recalled,  not 
charming — you,  as  one  of  the  women  of  England,  must 
be  anxious  to  know  what  the  chances  are.  All  I  can 
say  to  comfort  you  is,  that  you  know  as  much  about  it 
as  I  do.  I  fear  the  chances  are  against  me.  Well,  I 
shall  have  enjoyed  my  five  years  in  England,  where 
everybody  has  been  kind  to  me,  and  shall  find  people 
to  be  kind  to  me  at  home  also.  It  has  been  my  luck  to 
find  them  everywhere. 

I  wish  I  had  some  news  of  the  Great  World  to  send 
you,  but  there  never  has  been  any  since  I  can  remem 
ber,  except  that  it  was  going  to  be  wise  one  of  these 
fine  days.  But  no  day  has  yet  been  fine  enough  for  its 
purpose,  and  fine  days  are  so  rare  in  London  !  Yes, 
I  have  one  bit  of  secret  intelligence.  His  Excellency 
and  Mrs.  Lowell  are  going  to  see  the  Lord  Mayor's 
Show  to-morrow  for  the  first  time !  Don't  you  envy 
us?  Real  camels  and  real  elephants,  with  men  atop 
of  them,  and  Queen  Bess  in  all  her  glory !  I  mean 
to  be  ten  years  old  for  the  nonce.  Generally  I  am 
younger.  .  .  . 


284  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1884 

TO    THE    SAME 

Hurstbourne,  Nov.  16,  1884. 

.  .  .  Everybody  has  gone  to  church,  and  I  have  just 
come  in  from  walking  up  and  down  the  avenues  of 
meditation,  by  which  orientalism  I  mean  an  avenue  of 
autumnal  trees,  in  one  of  which  (an  elm  that  has 
changed  all  its  leaves  into  fairy  gold)  a  thrush  has 
been  singing  to  me,  like  Overbury's  fair  and  happy 
milkmaid,  as  if  he  never  could  be  old.  I  have  been 
thinking  that  the  decay  of  nature  is  far  more  beautiful 
than  that  of  man,  that  autumn  is  rather  pensive  than 
melancholy,  that  the  fall  of  the  leaf  does  not  work 
such  dilapidation  on  the  forest  as  on  us  the  fall  of  the 
hair,  but  gives  its  victims  a  new  beauty.  I  have  been 
thinking — to  about  as  much  purpose  as  the  deer  who 
were  browsing  or  dozing  all  about  me,  and  now  I  have 
come  in  to  answer  your  letter. 

I  am  quite  willing  you  should  prefer  disagreeable 
men  (there  are  enough  of  them  !),  provided  you  will 
tolerate  me.  For  my  part,  I  prefer  agreeable  women. 
I  must  keep  copies  of  my  letters  if  I  would  understand 
the  answers  to  them.  Could  I  have  been  such  an  ass 
as  to  ask  if  I  was  charming?  It  is  out  of  the  question. 
Even  if  I  thought  I  was,  I  should  be  too  clever  to  in 
quire  too  nicely  about  it,  for  I  hold  with  my  favorite 
Donne  that 

"  Who  knows  his  virtue's  name  and  place  hath  none." 

And  yet  I  should  infer  from  your  letter  that  I  had  been 
stupid  enough  to  ask  something  of  the  kind.     Nothing 


1884]  TO    MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD  285 

in  my  life  has  ever  puzzled  me  so  much  as  my  popu 
larity  here  in  England — which  I  have  done  nothing  and 
been  nothing  to  deserve.  I  was  telling  my  wife  a  day 
or  two  ago  that  I  couldn't  understand  it.  It  must  be 
my  luck,  and  ought  to  terrify  me  like  the  ring  of  Po- 
lycrates. 

No,  the  Lord  Mayor's  Show  was  pure  circus  and  poor 
circus  at  that.  It  was  cheap,  and  the  other  adjective 
that  begins  with  n.  'Twas  an  attempt  to  make  poetry 
out  of  commonplace  by  contract.  'Twas  antiquity  as 
conceived  by  Mr.  Sanger.  Why,  I  saw  the  bottoms  of 
a  Norman  knight's  trousers  where  they  had  been  hitched 
up  into  a  tell-tale  welt  round  the  ankle  by  his  chain 
armor!  There  was  no  pretence  at  illusion;  nay,  every 
elephant,  every  camel,  every  chariot  was  laden  with 
disillusion.  It  was  worth  seeing  for  once,  to  learn  how 
dreary  prose  can  contrive  to  be  when  it  has  full  swing. 

It  is  cold  here.  Twelve  degrees  of  frost  this  morn 
ing.  My  fingers  are  numb  and  my  thoughts  crawl 
slowly  as  winter  flies.  Are  you  making  notes  as  I  bade 
you  ?  I  have  no  news  about  myself  yet,  though  I  have 
heard  the  name  of  somebody  who  expects  to  be  my 
successor.  A  very  agreeable  man,  by  the  way,  so  you 
won't  like  him.  That's  some  comfort. 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   THE   SAME 

31  Lowndes  Square,  S.  W.,  Nov.  26,  1884. 
...  I  should  have  answered  your  letter  before  if  I 
had  not  had  somebody  staying  with  me  who  took  up  all 


286  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1884 

my  spare  time.  "  If  he  couldn't  find  time  he  should 
have  made  it !"  I  hear  you  exclaim,  and  if  I  had  been 
at  St.  Ives  I  would,  but  here  there  is  nothing  to  make 
it  with.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  could  have  done  it  any 
where,  for  the  material  of  the  manufacture  is  method, 
and  I  have  too  often  turned  all  my  pockets  inside  out 
and  never  found  that  I  had  any  about  me.  I  am  steal 
ing  the  time  I  need  for  this  note — I  hope  nobody  else 
will  miss  it.  'Tis  a  strong  argument  against  commu 
nism  that  time  is  one  of  the  few  things  we  hold  in 
common,  and  there  is  none  that  we  worse  misuse.  .  .  . 


TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

London,  Dec.,  1884. 

.  .  .  Politics  are  rather  interesting  here  just  now. 
You  will  like  to  hear  this :  the  other  day  I  said  to  Glad 
stone  that  I  was  very  glad  he  had  included  Ireland  in 
the  Franchise  Bill — or  rather  had  not  excluded  her.  "  I 
had  rather  the  heart  were  torn  out  of  my  breast  than 
that  clause  out  of  the  bill,"  said  he.  A  day  or  two  ago 
I  met  Morley  at  dinner,  who  regretted  that  I  had  not 
heard  Gladstone  a  few  nights  ago,  when  he  turned  on 
Sir  Stafford  Northcote  (his  whilom  private  secretary) 
and  rent  him.  I  said  that  from  what  I  had  heard  of  it, 
I  thought  it  must  have  been  a  fine  exhibition — some 
thing  lion-like  in  the  leap  of  it — but  that  mockers  said 
that  the  passion  was  simulated.  Morley  laughed  and 
said  that  in  the  lobby  afterwards  he  had  said  to  (I  for 
get  the  name),  "What  an  old  lion  it  is!"  "What  an 
old  fox !"  smiled  the  other.  I  think  Gladstone's  late  ill- 


1884]  TO   C.  E.  NORTON  287 

ness  (and  I  have  pretty  good  intelligence)  partly  moral 
and  partly  diplomatic,  by  the  way.  Egypt  is  beyond 
even  his  powers  of  explanation,  and  Pharaoh  seems  to 
harden  his  heart  and  won't  let  Gladstone's  people  go. 
What  puzzles  and  sometimes  bores  me  in  Gladstone 
is  that  he  takes  as  much  interest  in  one  thing  as  in 
another,  and  is  as  diffusively  emphatic  about  it — in  John 
Inglesant  (which  I  couldn't  read)  as  in  Gordon.  Gor 
don,  by  the  wray,  sent  me  his  regards  from  Khartoum 
— which  pleased  me  like  a  friendly  message  from  Judas 
Maccabeus.  .  .  . 

TO    THE    SAME 

31  Lowndes  Square,  S.  W.,  Dec.  8, 1884. 

...  I  post  with  this  a  corrected  copy  of  my  Address. 
Of  course  you  must  read  between  the  lines.  I  couldn't 
speak  my  mind  freely  whether  for  this  latitude  or  that. 
I  see  our  blots  only  too  plainly,  and  have  not  forborne 
my  commentary  on  them  in  time  past.  I  fear  you  see 
them  large — and  perhaps  I  see  them  small,  as  some  ar 
tists  do  the  heads  they  paint.  We  have  enormous  and 
exceptional  difficulties  in  our  foreign  and  half-digested 
population.  I  do  not  find  the  tone  much  higher  here — 
for  example,  in  the  private  talk  about  the  Corrupt  Prac 
tices  in  Elections  Act — though  I  admit  that  this  is  a 
less  dangerous  symptom  here  where  the  traditions  are 
all  aristocratic. 

As  for  the  small  majority  for  Cleveland,  I  am  more 
than  satisfied  with  any,  considering  the  obstacles.  That 
we  are  saved  from  Elaine  is  enough  for  the  nonce. 
There  are  four  more  years  to  work  in  before  the  next 


288  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1884 

election.     The  great  vice  is  in  the  system  of  conven 
tions,  as  I  learned  at  Cincinnati  in  '76.  .  .  . 


TO  JOHN  W.  FIELD 

London,  Dec.  11,  1884. 

...  As  for  coming  to  live  in  Washington,  my  dear 
boy,  that  is  all  very  well  for  people  that  have  "  struck 
ile."  But  I  haven't,  and  never  shall.  Besides,  I  have 
but  one  home  in  America,  and  that  is  the  house  where 
I  was  born  and  where,  if  it  shall  please  God,  I  hope  to 
die.  I  shouldn't  be  happy  anywhere  else,  and  might  as 
well  stay  here  where  we  are  nearer  the  world's  navel.  .  .  . 

TO    MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD 

31  Lowndes  Square,  S.  W.,  Dec.  14,  1884. 

.  .  .  You  have  now  all  the  prose  I  have  collected  into 
volumes.  I  am  really  glad  that  you  find  something  in 
them  to  like,  for  I  have  a  worse  opinion  of  myself  than 
of  most  authors,  knowing  only  too  well  how  much  I 
have  wasted  such  gift  as  I  had. 

I  do  not  know  whether  I  was  happier  when  I  wrote 
the  second  volume  of  "  Among  my  Books,"  as  you 
suppose.  I  am  never  very  happy  when  I  am  writing 
about  books  that  I  like.  I  had  much  rather  like  them 
and  say  nothing  about  it  —  for  one  should  be  secret 
about  one's  loves  and  not  betray  the  confidence  they 
have  put  in  one.  But  I  had  to  write  because  I  had 
foolishly  allowed  myself  to  be  made  a  professor,  and 
you  will  understand  better  the  defects  of  some  of  my 
essays  when  I  tell  you  that  they  were  patched  together 


1884]  TO   MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD  289 

from  my  lectures,  leaving  out  a  great  part  of  the  illus 
trative  matter,  and  compressing  rather  than  dilating  as 
one  should  do  for  a  miscellaneous  audience. 

As  for  happiness,  a  man  with  a  sense  of  humor  (as  I 
in  some  measure  have)  has  always  a  clot  of  black  blood 
in  his  veins,  always  circulating,  always  lodging  in  the 
most  unforeseen  and  discomfiting  places,  and  if  it  once 
get  into  the  heart  or  brain,  always  fatal  to  all  that  illu 
sion  which  is  the  substance  of  content.  And  then  I 
have  inherited  a  Puritan  conscience  that  will  not  let  me 
alone.  Every  now  and  then  my  good  spirits  carry  me 
away  and  people  find  me  amusing,  but  reaction  always 
sets  in  the  moment  I  am  left  to  myself. 

But  enough  of  Me  !  I  am  not  very  interesting  to  my 
self,  except  as  a  puzzle  sometimes,  and  I  do  not  wish 
to  propose  myself  to  you  as  a  conundrum. 

I  have  been  reading  Taine's  new  volume.  It  is  inter 
esting  as  a  collection  of  pieces  justificatives,  but  not  judi 
cial,  as  it  seems  to  me.  Tis  argument  of  counsel,  and 
not  the  charge  of  a  judge  weighing  both  sides.  The 
way  in  which  authors,  especially  French,  who  have 
found  the  moyen  de  parvenir,  look  backward  and  down 
ward  on  the  class  they  have  risen  from  is  bitterly  amus 
ing.  There  are  no  such  aristocrats.  They  kick  down 
the  ladder  behind  them,  quite  unconscious  that  the 
height  they  have  climbed  to  is  the  pillory.  The  agree 
able  aristocrats  are  those  who  are  born  to  it  and  there 
fore  unconscious — and  women,  who  all  have  it  in  their 
blood.  .  .  . 
II.— 19 


290  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1884 

TO   THE   SAME 

31  Lowndes  Square,  S.  W.,  Dec.  15, 1884. 
.  .  .  What  you  say  about  correctness  of  style  both 
pleases  and  amuses  me.  The  great  fault  I  am  always 
taxing  myself  with  is  impatience  of  revision.  I  am  too 
prone  to  extemporize.  A  note  on  p.  76  of  the  "  Essay 
on  Dryden."  will  show  that  we  are  of  one  mind  on  this 
point.  You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  a  man  once  de 
voted  an  entire  volume  to  the  exposure  of  my  solecisms, 
or  whatever  he  chose  to  call  them.  I  never  read  it — 
lest  it  should  spoil  my  style  by  making  it  conscious. 
A  Scotsman,  too,  gave  me  a  dressing,  I  am  told — but  I 
don't  mind  their  theories  about  English  (which  is  always 
a  foreign  tongue  to  them),  and,  besides,  he  liked  me  all 
the  same.  By  the  way,  a  Scotsman  had  the  ill-manners 
one  day  to  compliment  me  on  my  English.  "  Why,  I 
shouldn't  know  you  weren't  an  Englishman.  Where 
did  you  get  it?"  I  couldn't  resist,  and  answered  with 
a  couple  of  verses  from  a  Scottish  ballad — 

"  I  got  it  in  my  mither's  wame, 
Whaur  ye'll  get  never  the  like !" 

He  will  never  compliment  me  again,  I  fear.  .  .  . 

TO    THE    SAME 

31  Lowndes  Square,  S.W.,  Christmas  Day,  1884. 

...  I  dare  say  you  will  have  seen  by  the  papers  (for 

you  seem  to  read  them)  what  I  have  been  about.     But 

they  won't  have  told  you  that  I  made  a  very  stupid 

speech  at  Peterhouse  Monday  night.    I  couldn't  help  it. 


1884]  TO    O.  W.  HOLMES  291 

I  was  dazed  by  the  consciousness  that  there  were  to  be 
eighteen  speeches,  and  that  everybody  but  I  had  his 
speech  neatly  written  out  in  his  pocket.  I  really  had 
something  pretty  to  say — I  mean  I  might  have  had — 
but  after  hearing  six  or  seven  my  mind  was  a  blur. 
They  droned  away  over  their  flowers  of  rhetoric  as  bees 
do  over  a  tuft  of  lime-blossoms  when  they  know  that 
they  have  the  whole  day  before  'em,  and  that  the  long 
est  of  the  year.  Why,  we  didn't  rise  from  table  till 
half-past  one  !  Sir  Frederick  Bramwell  made  the  best 
speech.  He  was  called  on  to  answer  for  Applied  Sci 
ence.  "  At  this  time  of  night,"  said  he,  "  the  only  illus 
tration  of  the  toast  I  can  think  of  would  be  the  appli 
cation  of  the  domestic  safety  match  to  the  bedroom 
candle."  Whereupon  I  wrote  on  my  menu  and  handed 
over  to  him, 

"  Oh,  brief  Sir  Frederick,  might  the  others  catch 
Your  happy  science  and  supply  your  match  !" 

I  give  it  you  as  the  best  evidence  of  the  comatose  state 
to  which  I  was  reduced.  But  I  enjoyed  my  visit  at  Pe- 
terhouse  Lodge,  where  I  was  the  guest  of  the  master, 
Dr.  Porter,  an  old  friend  of  Leslie  Stephen.  .  .  . 


TO   O.  W.  HOLMES 

31  Lowndes  Square,  S.  W.,  Dec.  28,  1884. 

Dear  Wendell, — I  was  about  to  write  thanking  you 

for  your  "  Emerson,"  when  your  letter  was  brought  to 

me.     I  found  the  Emerson  very  interesting.     You,  more 

than  anybody  else,  have  the  literary  traditions  of  New 


292  LETTERS   OF  JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1884 

England  in  your  blood  and  brain.  It  was  this  spe 
cial  flavor  that  pleased  my  palate  as  I  read.  I  felt  as 
when  I  walk  along  one  of  our  country  lanes  in  early  au 
tumn — stone  walls  on  either  hand,  a  somewhat  thrifty 
landscape,  and  yet  fringed  all  along  with  hardhack  and 
golden-rod.  I  recognize  our  surly  limitations,  but  feel 
also  the  edging  of  poetry  —  northern,  not  tropical,  but 
sincere  and  good  of  its  kind.  Nay,  with  you  I  may 
trust  a  homelier  image.  You  know  that  odor  of  sweet 
herbs  in  the  New  England  garret  and  its  pungency  of 
association,  and  will  know  what  I  mean  when  I  say  that 
I  found  much  of  it  in  your  book.  You  have  never  writ 
ten  better  than  in  some  of  the  genially  critical  parts. 
There  are  admirable  things  in  the  chapter  about  Emer 
son's  poetry,  many  that  made  me  slap  my  thigh  with 
emphatic  enjoyment.  You  say  the  book  tired  you,  but 
I  see  no  sign  of  it,  and  your  wind  is  firm  to  the  end. 
I  thank  you  for  helping  me  to  a  conclusion  (or  a  dis 
tinction)  I  was  fumbling  for.  If  Emerson  show  no  sen 
suous  passion  in  his  verse,  at  least  there  is  spiritual  and 
intellectual  passion  enough  and  to  spare — a  paler  flame, 
but  quite  as  intense  in  its  way.  I  go  back,  you  see,  to 
my  hardhack  and  golden-rod  again.  I  talked  with  him 
once  about  his  versification,  by  the  way,  and  he  humor 
ously  confessed  that  he  couldn't  see  the  difference  be 
tween  a  good  verse  and  a  bad  one — so  in  that  line  you 
cite  from  his  "  Adirondacks." 

The  first  number  of  your  new  portfolio  whets  my  ap 
petite.  Let  me  make  one  historical  correction.  When 
I  accepted  the  editorship  of  the  Atlantic,  I  made  it  a 
condition  precedent  that  you  were  the  first  contributor 


1884]  TO   O.  W.  HOLMES  293 

to  be  engaged.     Said  I  not  well  ?     Underwood  will  re 
member  this. 

It  was  very  good  of  you  to  take  all  that  trouble  about 
me  and  my  poor  affairs  with  Mr.  Cleveland  and  Boyle 
O'Reilly.  As  for  the  former,  I  shall  be  satisfied  with 
whatever  he  thinks  fit  to  do  in  my  case,  for  I  have  a 
high  respect  for  his  character,  and  should  certainly  have 
voted  for  him  had  I  been  at  home.  As  minister  I  have 
always  refused  to  have  any  politics,  considering  myself 
to  represent  the  country  and  no  special  party  in  it.  As 
for  Mr.  O'Reilly,  it  is  he  that  misunderstands  the  rights 
of  naturalized  citizens,  not  I ;  and  he  wouldn't  have  mis 
understood  them  had  they  been  those  of  naturalized 
Germans,  nor  would  Bismarck  have  been  as  patient  as 
Granville.  I  made  no  distinction  between  naturalized 
and  native,  and  should  have  treated  you  as  I  did  the 
"  suspects  " — had  there  been  as  good  ground.  There  is 
a  manifest  distinction,  however,  between  a  native  Amer 
ican  who  goes  abroad  and  a  naturalized  citizen  who 
goes  back  to  the  country  of  his  birth,  and  we  acknowl 
edge  it  in  our  treaties — notably  with  Germany — making 
two  years'  residence  in  the  native  country  a  forfeiture 
of  the  acquired  citizenship.  Some  of  my  Irishmen  had 
been  living  in  their  old  homes  seventeen  years,  en 
gaged  in  trade  or  editing  nationalist  papers  or  mem 
bers  of  the  poor-law  guardians  (like  MacSweeney),  and 
neither  paying  taxes  in  America  nor  doing  any  other 
duty  as  Americans.  I  was  guided  by  two  things — the 
recognized  principles  of  international  law,  and  the  con 
duct  of  Lord  Lyons  when  Seward  was  arresting  and  im 
prisoning  British  subjects.  We  kept  one  man  in  jail 


294  LETTERS   OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1885 

seven  months  without  trial  or  legal  process  of  any 
kind,  and,  but  for  the  considerateness  and  moderation 
of  Lyons,  might  have  had  war  with  England.  I  think  I 
saved  a  misunderstanding  here.  .  .  .  When  I  had  at  last 
procured  the  conditional  (really  unconditional)  release 
of  all  the  suspects,  they  refused  to  be  liberated.  When 
I  spoke  of  this  to  Justin  McCarthy  (then  the  head  of 
the  Irish  Parliamentary  party,  Parnell  being  in  Kilmain- 
ham),  he  answered  cheerfully,  "  Certainly:  they  are  there 
to  make  trouble" 

But  enough  of  these  personal  matters.  I  shall  come 
home  with  the  satisfaction  of  having  done  my  duty  and 
of  having  been  useful  to  the  true  interests  of  both  coun 
tries — of  the  three  if  you  count  Ireland.  The  fun  of 
the  thing  is  that  here  I  was  considered  a  radical  in  my 
opinions  about  Ireland.  I  have  always  advised  them  to 
make  Davitt  or  Parnell  Irish  Secretary. 

Good-by  and  a  happy  New  Year ! 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO  MISS  GRACE  NORTON 

31  Lowndes  Square,  S.  W.,  Jan.  15,  1885. 

.  .  .  Do  you  remember  that  in  a  month  I  shall  be 
sixty-six  ?  Luckily  I  am  not  reminded  of  it  often,  our 
decays  are  so  full  of  prevenances  and  come  to  us  shod  in 
felt.  Don't  you  know  how  we  sometimes  become  instinc 
tively  aware  that  we  have  lost  or  forgotten  something, 
we  don't  know  what  ?  So  it  is  with  the  thefts  of  old  age. 
We  grow  conscious  of  them  only  after  all  is  over.  .  .  . 

A  German  band  is  noisy  before  my  window  as  I  write, 


1 885]      TO   G.  PUTNAM,  MRS.  CLIFFORD,  AND   C.  E.  NORTON         295 

and  it  is  a  rainy  day  and  there  is  a  blue  tinge  in  the  at 
mosphere  that  mezzotints  the  bare  trees  of  the  square, 
seeming  to  wrap  their  nerves  against  the  east  wind.  .  .  . 

TO    GEORGE   PUTNAM 

Legation  of  the  United  States, 
London,  March  2,  1885. 

...  I  am  more  than  ever  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with 
myself.  We  had  always  taken  it  for  granted  together 
that  she  would  outlive  me,  and  that  would  have  been 
best.  But  I  cannot  live  alone  in  the  old  home.  It 
would  be  too  dreary.  Whatever  I  decide,  I  shall  come 
home  for  a  visit.  .  .  . 

TO  MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD 

10  Lowndes  Square,  S.  W.,  March  19,  1885. 
Dear  Mrs.  Clifford, — In  trying  to  piece   together  the 
broken  threads  of  my  life  again,  the  brightest  naturally 
catch  the  eye  first.     I  write  only  to  say  that  I  do  not 
forget.  .  .  . 

I  am  getting  on  as  one  does — gradually  getting  my 
wits  together.  .  .  . 

I  have  at  last  found  something  I  can  read — Calderon. 
He  has  stood  me  in  stead  before. 
By  and  by  I  will  write  again. 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

31  Lowndes  Square,  S.  W.,  April  16,  1885. 
...  I  sail  for  home  on  the   loth  June  (earlier  if  I 


296  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1885 

can),  and  will  tell  you  all  I  have  to  say.  My  future  is 
misty  to  me.  What  you  write  falls  in  with  my  own 
inward  presentiment.  ...  I  should  be  happy  nowhere 
but  at  Elmwood.  There  I  cannot  live  now.  . 


TO  W.  D.  HOWELLS 
31  Lowndes  Square,  S.  W.,  April  17,  1885. 
Dear  Howells, — I  return  your  grasp  of  the  hand  with 
another  as  sincere,  but  in  silence.     What  is  there  to  be 
said? 

If  all  go  well  I  shall  see  you  again  in  June — one 
of  the  greatest  favors  I  have  to  thank  President  Cleve 
land  for. 

With  kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Howells, 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO  R.  W.  GILDER 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Southborough,  Mass., 
June  14,  1885. 

...  I  was  to  have  gone  to  Washington  last  week 
(carrying  my  head,  as  Bertran  de  Born  did,  like  a  lan 
tern)  to  take  a  look  at  my  decapitators,  but  the  illness 
of  Mr.  Bayard  prevented  me. 

I  am  now  waiting  fresh  orders  here,  where  I  ram 
ble  over  the  hills,  hearing  familiar  birds  and  plucking 
familiar  flowers.  I  find  that  my  life  hooks  together 
across  the  eight  years'  gap  as  if  nothing  had  happened 
so  far  as  the  outward  world  is  concerned.  Inwardly 
there  is  a  breach,  as  you  can  imagine. 

I  should  like  to  run  down  for  a  day  to  Marion,  and 
will  if  I  can. 


1885-1889 

RETURN  TO  AMERICA.  —  LIFE  IN  SOUTHBOROUGH  AND  BOS 
TON. — SUMMER  VISITS  TO  ENGLAND. 

LETTERS  TO  W.  D.  HOWELLS,  C.  E.  NORTON,  R.  W.  GILDER, 
J.  W.  FIELD,  R.  S.  CHILTON,  MISS  GRACE  NORTON,  THE 
MISSES  LAWRENCE,  MRS.  LESLIE  STEPHEN,  MRS.  EDWARD 
BURNETT,  G.  H.  PALMER,  T.  B.  ALDRICH,  THOMAS  HUGHES, 
MISS  E.  G.  NORTON,  LESLIE  STEPHEN,  MISS  SEDGWICK,  F.  H. 
UNDERWOOD,  MRS.  J.  T.  FIELDS,  MR.  AND  MRS.  S.  WEIR 
MITCHELL,  MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD,  MRS.  W.  E.  DARWIN. 

TO  W.  D.  HOWELLS 

Southborough,  Mass.,  July  I,  1885. 

Dear  Howells,  —  Many  thanks  for  your  welcome 
home — if  home  I  may  call  it  now.  I  had  been  count 
ing  on  seeing  yours  among  other  dear  faces,  and  you 
are  as  inaccessible  as  if  I  were  still  where  the  epigraph 
on  my  paper  puts  me.* 

I  have  been  reading  your  "  Silas  Lapham  "  with  great 
interest  and  admiration.  I  have  generally  found  ro 
mance  more  interesting  and  often  more  true  than  real 
ity — but  I  am  as  weak  as  FalstafT  and  can't  help  liking 
whatever  you  do,  whatever  it  may  be.  This  is  more 
your  fault  than  mine,  however,  for  it  is  sure  to  be 
good.  .  .  . 

*  The  paper  bears  his  old  London  address. 


298  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1885 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 
Deerfoot  Farm,  Southborough,  July  22,  1885. 

...  I  am  already  in  love  with  Southborough,  which 
is  a  charmingly  unadulterated  New  England  village, 
and  with  as  lovely  landscapes  as  I  ever  saw.  I  en 
trench  myself  in  a  flannel  shirt,  and  wander  over  the 
hills  and  in  the  lonely  pastures,  rejoicing  in  the  immiti 
gable  sunshine.  Tis  an  odd  shift  in  the  peep-hole  of 
my  panorama  from  London  to  this  Chartreuse.  For 
the  present  I  like  it,  and  find  it  wholesome.  I  fancy 
myself  happy  sometimes — I  am  not  sure — but  then  I 
never  was  for  long. 

I  shall  appear  in  Ashfield  in  time  for  your  rustic  feast 
— though  the  notion  of  a  speech  embitters  my  future. .  , . 

TO   THE   SAME 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Aug.  13,  1885. 

...  I  got  back  yesterday  morning  from  Washington, 
where  I  spent  four  days  very  pleasantly  with  Bayard, 
whom  I  liked  before,  but  now  like  thoroughly.  He  is  a 
gentleman  all  through,  and  as  courageous  as  a  tender 
heart  will  let  him  be.  I  mean  that  he  has  the  sensitive 
ness  as  well  as  the  high  spirit  of  a  refined  organization, 
and  that  it  would  be  better  for  him,  perhaps  for  the 
country,  if  he  could  be  brutal  on  occasion.  His  com 
merce  has  much  of  the  same  charm  that  Dufferin  has 
beyond  any  man  I  ever  knew,  whose  very  teeth  are  en 
gaging,  though  in  Dufferin  one  sometimes  fancies  that 
one  sees  the  ear-tip  of  highly  perfected  art.  Cleveland 
I  liked,  but  saw  only  for  half  an  hour.  I  told  him  that 


1885]  TO   C.  E.  NORTON  299 

I  came  to  him  like  St.  Denis,  with  the  head  he  had 
cut  off  under  my  arm,  at  which  piece  of  humor  he 
laughed  heartily  —  and  I  think,  on  the  whole,  was  not 
sorry  that  he  should  be  represented  in  England  by 
somebody  else. 

I  took  my  grandson  James  with  [me],  and  we  went 
to  Mount  Vernon  together,  whither  I  was  taken  by  my 
father  fifty-nine  years  ago.  I  remembered  everything 
as  if  from  yesterday,  and  went  straight  to  the  key  of  the 
Bastile  and  to  the  honey-locusts  in  the  garden.  Wash 
ington  must  have  found  it  hard  to  die  and  give  up  the 
view  from  his  veranda.  It  combines  grandeur  and  pla 
cidity,  as  he  did  himself.  I  was  struck  in  travelling  with 
Jem  to  find  how  much  less  the  boys  of  this  generation 
know  about  American  history  than  I  did  when  I  was 
seven  years  his  junior.  .  .  . 

TO   THE    SAME 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Sept.  n,  1885. 

...  I  got  home  safely,  bearing  constantly  in  mind 
our  modern  version  of  the  Spartan  mother's  parting 
words  to  her  son — "  with  your  portmanteau,  or  on  it " 
— for  as  I  had  a  special  check  and  a  very  complicated 
ticket,  I  felt  myself  walking  in  a  series  of  pitfalls  and 
ambushes,  where  every  baggage-smasher  was  a  secret 
foe.  I  waited  three  hours  at  Fitchburg,  and  wiled 
away  my  time  by  eating  a  very  durable  substitute  for 
what  is  elsewhere  called  a  beefsteak  and  in  visiting  the 
principal  objects  of  interest,  including  the  Cathedral 
and  picture  galleries.  I  saw  also  several  sign-boards 
which  promised  well  for  the  future  of  Fitchburgian  art. 


3OO  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1885 

My  hills  here  in  Southborough  I  found  lower  than  I 
left  them,  but  they  are  growing  daily,  and  will  be  as  tall 
as  ever  in  a  few  days.  I  find  I  was  right  in  falling  so 
deeply  in  love  with  the  "  June  grass."  We  have  it  here, 
as  I  thought,  but  it  hasn't  the  same  fine  effects  of  color. 
I  can't  account  for  it,  but  the  fact  is  so.  Nature  has 
these  partialities,  and  makes  no  scruple  of  showing 
them.  But  we  do  very  well,  all  the  same.  I  climbed 
one  of  my  hills  yesterday  afternoon,  and  took  a  sip  of 
Wachusett,  who  was  well  content  that  Monadnock  was 
out  of  the  way.  How  lucky  our  mountains  (many  of 
them)  are  in  their  names,  though  they  must  find  it  hard 
to  live  up  to  them  sometimes !  The  Anglo-Saxon  spon 
sor  would  Nicodemus  'em  to  nothing  in  no  time. 

I  found  a  bushel  of  cold  letters  awaiting  me  here, 
and  I  have  spent  most  of  my  time  with  my  hands 
across,  gazing  in  despair  at  the  outside  of  them.  I 
am  thinking  seriously  of  getting  a  good  forger  from 
the  state's-prison  to  do  my  autographs,  but  I  suppose 
the  unconvicted  followers  of  the  same  calling  would 
raise  the  cry  of  Convict  Labor.  Ashfield  would  be 
perfect  but  that  it  has  a  post-office.  That  fly  would 
corrupt  a  pot  of  ointment  as  large  as  the  cup  of  her 
horizon.  .  .  . 

TO   R.  W.  GILDER 

Southborough,  Nov.  9,  1885. 

...  As  for  writing,  if  pent  and  veut  were  the  same 
thing  (and  how  easily  they  might  be — only  they  won't 
— when  /  so  often  changes  to  b  and  that  to  v)  I  would 
swamp  all  the  magazines,  and  forty  Centuries  should  be- 


1885]  TO    R.  W.  GILDER  301 

hold  my  exploits  as  they  beheld  the  soldiers  of  the  only 
sublime  Charlatan  on  record.  But — to  take  another 
illustration  from  Egypt — Horus  didn't  have  to  pick  up 
his  own  disjecta  membra,  and  I  am  trying  to  piece  my 
self  together  again  with  no  help  save  my  own.  When  I 
am  not  answering  letters,  I  strive  for  a  little  peace  with 
my  pipe  and  the  small  flock  of  books  I  have  driven  up 
hither  from  Elmwood — a  flock  which  has  the  advantage 
of  pasturing  me  instead  of  my  doing  it  for  them.  It 
isn't  Arcady  exactly,  but  nobody  knows  how  to  find 
that  nowadays  except  your  friend  Mr.  Bunner,  whose 
volume,*  by  the  way,  I  read  with  so  much  pleasure.  It 
has  some  real  stuff  in  it — and  woven,  too,  with  no  creak 
of  machinery.  But  if  it  isn't  Arcady  ("  to  resume,"  as 
the  "  Compleat  Letter-writer"  would  say),  it  pleases  me 
for  its  analogy  with  my  favorite  hero  Don  Quixote. 
Like  him  I  began  with  my  tilt  at  windmills,  and  like 
him  I  seek  repose  from  discomfiture  in  another  phase  of 
my  monomania.  Aren't  the  enchanters  as  active  as 
ever?  Haven't  they  resuscitated  Sambo  in  a  shape  as 
descomunal  as  ever,  after  we  had  dismounted  him  once 
and  for  all  ? 

And  then  there  is  the  Atlantic.  They  (O.  W.  H.  and 
the  rest)  all  say  that  I  owe  a  duty  (and  the  first)  to  my 
own  child,  or,  rather,  the  adopted  foundling  I  taught  to 
go  alone.  And  I  meanwhile  have  a  sneaking  disgust 
at  the  whole  of  it,  as  knowing  that  my  value  is  due  less 
to  myself  than  to  the  abominable  notoriety  I  have  un 
happily  achieved  in  these  latter  years.  .  .  . 

*  "  Airs  from  Arcady." 


302  LETTERS   OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1885 

TO  JOHN  W.  FIELD 

Boston,  Dec.  13,  1885. 

.  .  .  Where  did  you  get  that  extract  from  a  letter  of 
mine?*  and  to  whom  was  it  written?  It  antedates  my 
abolitionism  by  two  years.  I  thought  it  began  in  1840. 
But  when  I  read  the  passage  you  quote,  I  remembered 
having  written  on  my  Class  poem  (in  which  I  made  fun 
of  the  Abolitionists,  1838), 

"  Behold  the  baby  arrows  of  that  wit 

Wherewith  I  dared  assail  the  woundless  Truth ! 
Love  hath  refilled  the  quiver,  and  with  it 

The  man  shall  win  atonement  for  the  youth.'7.  .  . 

TO   R.  S.  CHILTON 

68  Beacon  Street,  Boston,  Dec.  17,  1885. 

.  .  .  No,  I  am  not  living  at  Elmwood,  alas !  and  never 
look  forward  to  living  there  again.  I  have  let  it,  it  be 
ing  for  me  uninhabitable.  I  hope  to  die  there,  however. 

I  received  your  volume,  and  ought  to  have  thanked 
you  for  it  long  ago.  It  revived  so  many  pleasant 
old  associations !  I  was  naturally  very  much  pleased 
with  the  poem  with  which  you  have  honored  me,  but 
thought  the  entire  tone  and  manner  of  the  book  an 
honor  to  you.  .  .  . 

TO   MISS  GRACE  NORTON 

Deerfoot,  Christmas  Day,  1885. 

.  .  .  The  "Scepsis,"  too,  completes  my  Glanvill,  for 
the  "Sadducismus"  has  stood  on  my  shelves  this  many 

*  An  extract  from  a  letter  to  Dr.  Loring,  dated  Nov.  15,  1838 ; 
see  vol.  i.  p.  35. 


1 886]  TO    THE    MISSES    LAWRENCE  303 

a  year,  and  will  feel  warmer  with  his  brother  beside  him. 
I  shall  read  the  "  Scepsis  "  as  soon  as  I  have  time,  and 
I  am  sure  it  will  interest  me  as  the  other  did,  for  I,  too, 
am  a  sceptic,  with  a  superstitious  imagination.  .  .  . 

TO   THE   MISSES   LAWRENCE 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Southborough,  Mass., 
Jan.  4,  1886. 

...  I  am  living  quietly  here  with  my  son-in-law,  my 
daughter,  and  five  very  creditable  grandchildren,  in  a 
pretty  country  village,  all  hill  and  dale,  and  eveiy  hill 
a  heap  of  boulders  piled  up  by  glaciers  Heaven  knows 
how  long  ago.  I  like  my  grandchildren,  and  this  is  in 
their  favor,  for  I  have  none  of  that  natural  fondness  for 
children  which  some  people  have,  who  also,  I  have  ob 
served,  like  puppies  in  the  same  indiscriminate  way.  I 
like  my  solitude,  too,  when  I  am  allowed  to  have  it  all 
to  myself,  for  a  solitude  d  deux  is  possible  only  with  a 
woman. 

You  must  have  had  a  pleasant  continental  trip,  but  I 
can't  understand  your  not  liking  Weimar.  I  liked  it 
immensely — a  kind  of  puppet-theatre  of  the  world,  with 
its  little  Schloss  and  little  Park  and  little  Army  and  lit 
tle  Play-house  and  little  Court  and  little  men  and  wom 
en.  And  as  for  the  little  stream  that  runs  through  the 
Park  or  along  its  edge,  I  fell  in  love  with  it,  and  so 
would  you  had  you  seen  the  horse-chestnuts  lying  in 
its  bed,  and  more  brilliant  than  balas  rubies.  And  then 
there  was  the  grand  duke  —  a  man  of  genius  (on  per 
petual  furlough),  and  one  can  get  on  very  well  where 
one  has  a  man  of  genius  to  friend.  And  Frau  v.  Stein 


304  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1886 

— one  can  get  on  very  well  where  there  is  one  charm 
ing  woman.  But  I  am  glad  you  said  what  you  did,  be 
cause  it  confirms  me  in  something  I  was  going  to  say 
about  Hawthorne — that  men  of  genius  can  manage  any 
where,  because  they  make  the  best  part  of  their  own 
material.  .  .  . 

But  you  have  Ireland  still,  and  worse  than  ever.  'Tis 
the  clot  of  blood  in  England's  veins,  always  discomfort 
ing,  and  liable  always  to  lodge  in  the  brain.  But  then 
we  all  have  our  difficulties — that's  what  we  are  put  here 
for,  and  they  put  here  with  us  to  test  our  doughtiness. 
I  often  recall  Hamlet's  groan  about  the  out-of-joint 
world  and  the  cruel  spite — nevertheless.  But  one  can 
be  philosophical  three  thousand  miles  away ! 

What  you  say  of  Weimar  convinces  me  of  how  Lon 
don  has  thrown  its  dust  in  your  eyes.  But  I  like  it  too, 
and  am  glad  even  of  a  bit  of  gossip  thence  now  and 
then.  .  .  . 

You  will  divine,  by  what  I  say  about  gossip,  that  I 
am  growing  old.  I  used  to  be  as  stern  about  it  as 
Wordsworth.  You  remember  his  "  I  am  not  one," 
etc.  ?  'Tis  senescence  or  London,  I  know  not  which — 
perhaps  a  mixture  of  both.  .  .  . 

TO    R.  W.  GILDER 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Southborough,  Jan.  16,  1886. 
Dear  Mr.  Gilder, — I    return   the   portfolio   with   the 
verses*  you  ask  for  therein.     It  was  an  effort  of  hon- 

*  Autograph  from  "  Commemoration  Ode,"  for  reproduction, 
to  precede  the  "  Life  of  Lincoln." 


1886]  TO    R.  W.  GILDER  305 

esty  on  my  part  to  send  you  back  the  former,  for  I  felt 
like  "  proud  Dacres"  when 

"  He  came  aboard 

To  deliver  up  his  sword, 

He  was  loath  to  give  it  up — it  looked  so  neat 
and  handy,  oh !" 

(Pronounce  the  sw  in  "sword"  as  in  "swore,"  and 
"loath"  "  lawth,"  or  you  lose  the  local  tone  of  the 
period.)  I  have  always  thought  this  passage  delight 
ful — a  wonderful  bit  of  sympathetic  divination  by  the 
thrifty  Yankee  poet.  Ah  me,  how  the  times  change 
and  we  with  them  !  I  have  often  seen  rustics,  buoyant 
with  Medford  rum,  dance  the  double  shuffle  on  the 
piazza  of  a  country  inn  to  the  tune  of  Hull's  victory, 
and  I  saw  that  hero  himself  when  his  sword-belt  would 
have  lapt  over  round  a  young  elephant.  As  I  looked 
down  on  him,  seated  just  under  my  perch  in  the  gallery 
of  Funnle  Hall  (they  call  it  fan-you-well  now),  he  looked 
like  a  huge  terrestrial  globe  flanked  with  epaulets.  I 
think  it  was  when  General  Jackson  had  a  reception 
there.  But  I  am  getting  garrulous. 

The  passage  about  Lincoln  was  not  in  the  ode  as 
originally  recited,  but  added  immediately  after.  More 
than  eighteen  months  before,  however,  I  had  written 
about  Lincoln  in  the  North  American  Review — an  ar 
ticle  which  pleased  him.  I  did  divine  him  earlier  than 
most  men  of  the  Brahmin  caste.  The  ode  itself  was  an 
improvisation.  Two  days  before  the  Commemoration 
I  had  told  my  friend  Child  that  it  was  impossible — that 
I  was  dull  as  a  door-mat.  But  the  next  day  something 
gave  me  a  jog  and  the  whole  thing  came  out  of  me 
II.— 20 


306  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1886 

with  a  rush.  I  sat  up  all  night  writing  it  out  clear,  and 
took  it  on  the  morning  of  the  day  to  Child.  "  I  have 
something,  but  don't  yet  know  what  it  is,  or  whether 
it  will  do.  Look  at  it  and  tell  me."  He  went  a  little 
way  apart  with  it  under  an  elm-tree  in  the  College  yard. 
He  read  a  passage  here  and  there,  brought  it  back  to 
me,  and  said,  "  Do  ?  I  should  think  so  !  Don't  you  be 
scared."  And  I  wasn't,  but  virtue  enough  had  gone 
out  of  me  to  make  me  weak  for  a  fortnight  after.  I 
was  amazed  at  the  praises  I  got.  Trevelyan  told  me 
afterwards  that  he  never  could  have  carried  through 
the  abolition  of  purchase  in  the  British  Army  but  for 
the  reinforcement  he  got  from  that  poem.  "  I  advise 
you  to  listen  to  this,"  Sumner  used  to  say  when  he 
was  talking  about  himself  (as  he  commonly  was) ;  "  this 
is  historical!"  So,  having  snubbed  myself,  I  go  on  to 
say  that  I  send  the  portfolio  by  express.  .  .  . 

TO   W.  D.  HOWELLS 

68  Beacon  St.,  Boston,  Feb.  2,  1886. 

Dear  Howells, — I  told  you  that  I  liked  the  plan  of 
the  new  story  when  you  gave  me  a  sketch  of  it.*  I  like 
the  story  itself  so  thoroughly  that  I  must  please  myself 
by  telling  you  so.  So  far,  'tis  the  best  yet.  It  made 
me  forget  eighteen  hours  in  a  sleeping-car  and  the  loss 
of  my  only  wearable-in-Boston  hat. 

But  I  won't  let  you  say  (when  you  reprint)  as  you 
do  on  page  5,  1st  col.,  "  bring  us  in  closer  relations,"  for 
that  isn't  what  you  mean.  You  don't  mean  "bring-in 

*  "The  Minister's  Charge." 


1 8  36]  TO   W.  D.  HOWELLS  307 

to  us,"  but  "  bring  us  into "/  That's  what  you  mean. 
I  am  going  to  get  up  a  society  for  the  Prevention  of 
Cruelty  to  Prepositions — I  am  getting  so  cross.  Ani 
mals  have  certain  natural  means  of  defence.  They  can 
bite  and  prepositions  can't.  The  skunk — but  I  forbear 
— you  know  what  he  can  do  in  the  newspapers.  So  be 
ware,  my  dear  boy  !  The  society  will  be  immitigable.  It 
will  spare  neither  age  nor  sex,  and  will  be  happiest  when 
dancing  a  war-dance  on  the  broken  ties  of  friendship. 

On  second  thought,  however  (the  hat  having  mean 
while  come  back),  I  still  remain  as  always 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

Barring  this  bit  of  fruitless  brutality,  the  story  is 
simply  delightful. 

TO   THE   SAME 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Feb.  14,  1886. 

My  dear  Valentine, — Come  to  68  Beacon  Street,  Tues 
day  afternoon  or  late  on  Wednesday,  for  I  don't  wish 
to  miss  you. 

I  ought  to  have  said,  but  forgot  it,  that  you  will  find 
plenty  of  authority  for  in  as  you  used  it  in  our  older 
writers.  I  remember  it  in  Latimer  (he  was  burned  alive 
for  that  among  other  heresies,  however)  and  elsewhere. 
But  that  sprang  from  a  false  analogy  with  the  Latin, 
where  the  same  preposition  served  both  ends  according 
to  the  case  it  governed.  I  believe  some  grammars  still 
give  no  cases,  but  we  have  at  best  only  one  distinctive 
case-ending  that  I  can  think  of — the  genitive. 

Affectionately  yours,         J.  R.  LOWELL. 


308  LETTERS   OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1886 

TO   MRS.  LESLIE  STEPHEN 

Boston,  March  21,  1886. 

...  It  is  really  too  bad  that  I  have  been  silent  so 
long.  But  if  you  only  knew  how  hard  they  work  me 
with  letters  and  speeches  and  things ;  and  they  have 
invented  a  new  mode  of  torture — readings  from  one's 
poems,  by  Dr.  Holmes  and  me,  for  the  benefit  of  chan 
ties  of  one  kind  or  another.  We  bow  our  necks  to  the 
yoke  like  patient  oxen,  and  leaning  away  from  each 
other  as  oxen  will,  strive  to  retrace  our  ancient  fur 
rows,  which  somehow  will  not  gleam  along  the  edge 
as  when  the  turf  was  first  broken.  Admire,  prithee, 
the  aptness  of  my  image,  after  first  turning  up  in  your 
Dixery  the  etymology  of  verse. 

I  am  in  Boston,  and  it  is  a  rainy,  dull  day,  such  as 
we  Americans,  when  we  are  in  London,  swear  we  never 
have  at  home.  But  we  brought  this  wet  with  us  also 
from  the  Old  Home,  and  have  improved  upon  it  of 
course. 

It  rained  all  day  yesterday,  too,  and  when  it  rains 
here  'tis  after  the  reckless  fashion  of  our  people,  as  if 
we  would  spend  all  at  once.  None  of  your  effete-mon 
archy  drizzles  such  as  you  have  in  London,  penurious 
as  the  last  drops  from  a  washerwoman's  wringing.  .  .  . 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Deerfoot  Farm,  March  30,  1886. 

...  I  send  back  the  Dante,  which  you  must  have 
feared  as  irretrievably  lost  as  Petrarch's  copy  of  the 
"  De  Gloria.".  . 


TO   JOHN   W.  FIELD   AND   MRS.  EDWARD    BURNETT        309 

What  I  have  for  my  book*  makes  only  140  pages, 
and  they  say  it  must  be  bigger.  I  had  forgotten  the 
Wordsworth  address.  Did  I  send  you  one?  If  so,  send 
it  to  68  Beacon  Street,  and  let  me  use  it  to  print  from. 
I  have  another  in  London  which  I  will  give  you. 

I  hate  all  the  Addresses,  now  they  are  cold  as  Saul 
on  Mount  Gilboa.  Mi  raccapricciono — they  give  me  the 
goose-flesh.  As  usual,  I  haven't  left  myself  time  to  cor 
rect  my  proofs.  What  a  pleasant  life  I  shall  have  of  it 
when  I  have  all  Eternity  on  -deposit !  Then  the  print 
ers  will  say,  "  If  you  can  with  convenience  return  proofs 
before  end  of  next  century,  you  would  oblige ;  but  there 
is  no  hurry."  Tis  an  invincible  argument  for  immor 
tality  that  we  never  have  time  enough  here — except  for 
doing  other  things.  .  .  . 

TO  JOHN  W.  FIELD 

Deerfoot  Farm,  March  30,  1886. 

...  I  may  be  back  before  you  leave  Ashfield  next 
summer,  and  if  so,  shall  next  see  you  there — as  good 
a  place  as  I  know  of  this  side  heaven.  Were  I  as  good 
as  you  are,  I  should  hope  to  meet  you  there  also.  If 
not,  pitch  me  down  a  square  of  turf  to  stand  upon  when 
my  birthday  comes  round.  .  .  . 

TO   MRS.  EDWARD  BURNETT 

40  Clarges  Street,  Piccadilly,  W., 
May  3,  1886. 

...  I  find  myself  very  warmly  welcomed  back,  and 
*  "  Democracy,  and  Other  Addresses." 


3IO  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1886 

shall  soon  be  trotting  round  in  the  old  vicious  circle 
of  dinners  and  receptions.  I  have  had  to  make  one 
speech  at  the  dinner  of  the  Royal  Academy,  and  have 
refused  to  make  five  others.  The  editor  of  the  Contem 
porary  Review  has  just  gone  out,  having  vainly  endeav 
ored  (at  the  instigation  of  John  Morley)  to  persuade  me 
that  I  should  be  doing  a  public  service  by  giving  my 
views  on  Mr.  Gladstone's  Home  Rule  project  in  that 
periodical.  But  I  prefer  to  keep  clear  of  hot  potatoes 
— and  Irish  ones  are  apt  to  be  particularly  hot.  Pretty 
nearly  Everybody  who  is  Anybody  here  is  furious — there 
is  no  other  word  for  it — and  denounces  the  G.  O.  M.  as 
a  kind  of  baser  Judas  Iscariot,  all  the  more  contempti 
ble  because  he  will  be  cheated  of  his  thirty  pieces.  The 
Irish  themselves  are  beginning  to  feel  the  responsibility 

of  governing  Ireland,  and  Mr. has  said  that  they 

should  "  want  an  alien  act  to  enable  them  to  deal  with 
those  d — d  Irish-American  scoundrels."  (This  is  confi 
dential.)  The  "  situation  "  is  a  very  grave  one,  and 
everybody  who  isn't  excited  is  depressed. 

I  have  been  to  see  Irving's  "  Faust "  (a  wonderful 
spectacle,  but  a  very  disagreeable  play)  and  Madame 
Sara  Bernhardt,  who  has  gone  off  a  little,  but  is  still 
diabolically  effective  in  certain  rather  unpleasant  ways. 
I  used  to  forget  who  and  what  Rachel  was,  but  can't 
divorce  Sara  from  her  .  .  .  self.  Whom  the  Devil 
hath  joined  together  can't  be  put  asunder.  I  am  to  see 
her  again,  nevertheless,  to-morrow  night.  Both  times  I 
have  gone  by  invitation  of  people  who  had  places  to 
spare.  So  you  see  I  am  emulating  John  Gilpin. 

It  has  been  very  cold  ever  since  I  have  been  here — 


1886]  TO    R.  W.  GILDER  311 

but  generally  bright,  which  makes  a  great  difference,  and 
oh,  how  goldenly  green  the  grass  in  the  Parks  is  !  The 
horse-chestnuts  are  getting  ready  their  blossoms,  and 
the  thrushes  need  strait-waistcoats  every  one  of  them. 

I  don't  know  whether  I  am  glad  I  came  or  not.  My 
lodgings  are  good,  but  I  haven't  got  wonted  yet  and 
can't  do  anything.  Yes,  I  can  preside  at  a  dinner  of 
the  Dilettanti  Society,  as  I  did  last  night.  But  all  din 
ners  are  alike,  except  one  I  have  just  lost  with  Froude 
to  meet  Matt  Arnold  and  Morley.  Unfortunately  I  had 
promised  myself  for  the  Sunday  at  Hurstbourne.  .  .  . 

TO   R.  W.  GILDER 

Care  of  Baring  Brothers, 
London  [May  ?  1886]. 

...  I  wish  to  do  an  act  of  charity  to  a  dear  old 
friend  of  mine  here,  and  experience  has  taught  me  that 
it  is  more  frugal  to  be  vicariously  beneficent.  This 
won't  give  me  a  very  high  place  in  heaven  perhaps, 
but  I  am  modest,  and  with  the  pious  Hebrew  should  be 
content  with  a  portership  in  the  House  of  the  Lord — 
not  only  because  it  would  keep  me  nearer  earth,  but  be 
cause  in  that  office  I  could  slam  the  door  in  the  faces  of 
bores,  critics,  and  booksellers.  I  have  chosen  you  for 
my  vicar. 

The  case  is  this.  Miss  Mary  Boyle  is  a  delightful  old 
lady.  How  old  she  is  may  be  inferred,  without  breach 
of  the  bienstance*  from  the  fact  that  Silvio  Pellico  wrote 
verses  to  her  nearly  sixty  years  ago.  It  is  no  fault  of 
hers  that  they  are  not  very  good,  still  less  that  she 
should  think  them  so.  She  is  not  only  herself  old,  but 


312  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1886 

comes  of  an  old  family,  so  that  she  has  a  double  share 
of  the  infirmities  of  age.  She  is  a  descendant  of  that 
Earl  of  Orrery  who  anticipated  the  dreary  results  of 
modern  science  by  substituting  balls  of  cork  on  the  ends 
of  wires  for  the  lamps  of  heaven.  (He  was  made  Earl 
of  Cork  afterwards  in  recognition  of  this  service.)  She 
is  also,  I  believe,  a  descendant  of  that  Honorable  Robert 
Boyle  whom  Bentley  roasted  in  his  own  bull  of  Phalaris. 
Let  not  these  facts  prejudice  you  against  her.  She  has 
the  blood  of  one  martyr  at  least  in  her  veins. 

She  has  fifteen  notes  and  letters  of  Landor  (to  her), 
and  is  willing  to  part  with  copies  for  publication.  Here 
is  no  case  of  dux  femina  facti,  for  I  suggested  it.  Some 
of  the  letters  are  very  interesting,  and  all  are  character 
istic.  They  have  never  been  printed.  Would  they  be 
worth  £50  to  you  ?  or  ,£40?  I  put  the  more  generous 
sum  first  in  deference  to  my  own  hopes  and  your  charac 
ter.  If,  when  you  get  them,  you  think  you  have  been 
cheated,  I  will  make  good  the  odds  between  my  esti 
mate  and  yours.  When  I  get  home  (I  come  in  Septem 
ber)  I  will  write  a  short  preface  to  them  for  nothing  if 
you  wish.  They  are  not  important  letters,  but  they  are 
Landor's.  She  is  poor  and  nearly  blind — as  good  as 
gold,  but  without  the  broker's  art  of  changing  herself 
into  it.  What  say  you  ?* 

With  all  kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Gilder, 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

*  The  letters  were  printed  in  the  Century,  with  a  pleasant  in 
troduction  by  Lowell,  consisting  mainly  of  his  reminiscences  of  a 
visit  to  Landor.  This  may  now  be  found  in  the  volume  of  his 
"  Latest  Prose  Essays." 


1 886]  TO    MRS.   EDWARD    BURNETT  313 

If  my  wild  demand  bewilders, 

Think,  'tis  only  fifty  pound  ! 
Had  I  said  as  many  Gilders, 

Where  could  such  a  sum  be  found  ? 


TO   MRS.  EDWARD   BURNETT 

40  Clarges  Street,  Piccadilly,  W., 
June  7,  1886. 

.  .  .  My  life  here  amuses  without  satisfying  me,  and 
sometimes  I  am  half  sorry  that  I  came.  The  political 
situation,  however,  continues  to  be  interesting,  and  opin 
ion  about  the  fate  of  Mr.  Gladstone's  bill  varies  from 
hour  to  hour.  I  for  a  good  while  thought  the  second 
reading  would  be  carried  by  a  small  majority,  but  believe 
now  that  it  will  be  defeated.  I  hear  that  Mr.  Gladstone 
said  to  the  Duke  of  Argyll,  "  I  hoped  in  my  old  age  to 
save  my  country,  but  this  is  a  bitter,  humiliating  disap 
pointment.''  The  fate  of  second  reading  depends  some 
what  on  the  fear  of  a  dissolution  of  Parliament,  but  the 
general  opinion  now  is  that  Government,  if  defeated, 
will  dissolve.  I  asked  Mr.  Chamberlain  day  before  yes 
terday  if  he  thought  the  G.  O.  M.  was  angry  enough  to 
dissolve,  and  he  said  yes.  I  met  Gladstone  a  few  days 
ago,  and  he  looked  gay  as  a  boy  on  his  way  home 
from  school.  From  what  I  hear  I  am  inclined  to  think 
that  what  is  called  Irish  public  opinion  in  favor  of 
Home  Rule  is  nearly  as  factitious  as  that  of  our  Ameri 
can  meetings  and  resolutions.  .  .  . 


314  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1886 

TO    THE    SAME 

40  Clarges  Street,  Piccadilly,  W., 
June  19,  1886. 

.  .  .  From  Osterley  I  went  to  Holmbury  (Leveson- 
Gower's),  where  I  spent  a  couple  of  days  very  pleas 
antly  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Gladstone  and  other  guests. 
Mr.  Gladstone  was  in  boyish  spirits.  He  told  me, 
among  other  things,  that  "  in  the  whole  course  of  his 
political  experience  he  had  never  seen  anything  like 
the  general  enthusiasm  of  the  country  for  Home  Rule 
in  Ireland."  I  asked  slyly  "  if  it  was  not  possible  that 
a  part,  at  least,  of  this  enthusiasm  might  be  for  the 
Prime  Minister?"  "  Oh  no,  no,  not  a  bit  of  it!"  he  an 
swered  with  eager  emphasis.  And  I  am  inclined  to 
think  he  persuaded  himself  for  the  moment.  This  is 
one  secret  of  his  power  as  a  speaker — that  he  is  capa 
ble  of  improvising  convictions.  He  left  us  to  go  down 
to  Scotland,  and  I  couldn't  help  remembering  that  I 
first  met  him  at  a  dinner  at  Lord  Ripon's,  in  March, 
'80,  when  he  was  on  the  eve  of  starting  for  Midlothian 
on  his  first  Scottish  campaign.  He  was  very  confident, 
and  the  result  justified  him.  Perhaps  it  will  again, 
though  the  general  opinion  (as  one  hears  it)  is  the  other 
way.  But  I  still  think  the  people  strongly  with  him. 

.  .  .  On  the  2Qth  I  go  down  to  the  Vice-Chancellor's 
at  Baliol  to  wear  my  gown  at  Commemoration  and 
help  Dr.  Holmes  on  with  his.  He  is  enjoying  himself 
immensely,  and  takes  as  keen  an  interest  in  everything 
as  he  would  have  done  at  twenty.  I  almost  envy  him 
this  freshness  of  genius.  Everybody  is  charmed  with 
him,  as  it  is  natural  they  should  be.  .  .  . 


1886]  TO   MRS.  E.  BURNETT   AND    C.  E.  NORTON  315 

TO   THE   SAME 

40  Clarges  Street,  Piccadilly,  W., 
July  7,  1886. 

.  .  .  The  elections  are  raging  still,  and  I  find  myself 
quoted  on  both  sides.  I  made  an  epigram  (extempore) 
one  day  on  the  G.  O.  M.,  and  repeated  it  to  Lord 
Acton. 

His  greatness  not  so  much  in  Genius  lies 
As  in  adroitness,  when  occasions  rise, 
Lifelong  convictions  to  extemporize. 

This  morning  I  find  the  last  lines  quoted  by  Auberon 
Herbert  in  a  letter  to  the  Times,  but  luckily  without 
my  name.  It  is  a  warning.  Mr.  Gladstone  hasn't 
been  as  lucky  with  the  constituencies  as  I  expected. 
Mr.  Goschen,  however,  has  been  defeated  at  Edinburgh 
(for  which  I  am  sorry),  and  this  seems  to  console  the 
ministerialists  for  many  other  losses.  I  still  remain  con 
vinced  that  Home  Rule  in  some  shape  will  carry  it  one 
of  these  days.  .  .  . 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

40  Clarges  Street,  Piccadilly,  W., 
July  25,  1886. 

.  .  .  What  you  say  of  Carlyle  is  sympathetic  (as  it 
should  be)  and  not  dyspathetic.  Of  course  every  man 
that  has  any  dimensions  at  all  must  have  more  than 
one  side  to  him,  and  if  he  have  dyspepsia  one  of  those 
sides  will  have  corners,  and  sharp  ones,  that  find  a  sort 
of  ease  in  the  ribs  of  other  folks.  But,  after  all,  Carlyle 
was  a  man  of  genius,  and  it  is  sheer  waste  of  time  to  be 


316  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1886 

looking  one's  gift-horse  in  the  mouth  and  examining  his 
hoofs,  if  he  have  wings  and  can  lift  us  away  from  this 
lower  region  of  turmoil  at  will.  The  rest  is  rubbish. 
Biographies  (except  Plutarch's)  seldom  do  a  man  any 
good,  and  the  less  in  proportion  to  the  cleverness  of  the 
biographer,  for  your  very  clever  one  is  sure  to  mix  a 
good  deal  of  auto-  with  his  bio-graphy.  The  beauty 
and  truth  of  impressions  depend  on  the  substance  in 
which  they  are  made.  The  main  ingredient  a  biogra 
pher  should  contribute  is  sympathy  (which  includes  in 
sight).  Truth  is  not  enough,  for  in  biography,  as  in 
law,  the  greater  the  truth  sometimes  the  greater  the 
libel.  Happy  those  authors  who  are  nothing  more  than 
airy  tongues  that  syllable  our  names  when  they  have  a 
message  for  us !  Most  Lives  are  more  properly  Deaths, 
or  at  least  might  have  for  their  title,  like  Chapman's 
D'Ambois,  "  The  Life  and  Death  of  So-and-so." 

I  am  living  a  futile  life  here,  but  am  as  fond  of  Lon 
don  as  Charles  Lamb.  The  rattle  of  a  hansom  shakes 
new  life  into  my  old  bones,  and  I  ruin  myself  in  them. 
I  love  such  evanescent  and  unimportunate  glimpses  of 
the  world  as  I  catch  from  my  flying  perch.  I  envy  the 
birds  no  longer,  and  learn  better  to  converse  with  them. 
Our  views  of  life  are  the  same. 

As  for  politics — I  saw  Gladstone  the  other  day,  and 
he  was  as  buoyant  (&y/ant)  as  when  I  stayed  with  him 
at  Holmbury,  just  before  he  started  for  Scotland.  I 
think  the  Fates  are  with  him,  and  that  the  Tories  will 
have  to  take  up  Home  Rule  where  he  left  it.  The 
great  difficulty  is  in  making  up  an  able  Cabinet.  I  sup 
pose  that  ineptitudes  will  be  neutralized  with  coronets 


I8S6]  TO    MRS.   EDWARD    BURNETT  317 

(or  signalized  by  them,  as  we  mark  shoals  with  buoys), 
and  room  made  for  younger  and  abler  men.  Lord 
Randolph  Churchill  is  taken  seriously  now,  and  will 
have  a  front  seat.  He  ought  to  build  a  temple  to  the 
goddess  Push. 

I  spent  two  days  in  the  country  lately  (at  the  George 
Lewises)  with  Burne-Jones,  and  found  .him  delightful. 
As  Mrs.  Lewis  says,  "  If  he  were  not  a  great  artist,  there 
would  be  enough  left  of  him  to  make  a  great  man  of." 
His  series  of  Perseus  (did  you  see  any  of  them  ?)  is  to 
my  thinking  the  greatest  achievement  in  art  of  our 
time  or  of  any  time.  It  has  mannerisms  which  I  don't 
like,  but  it  is  noble  in  conception  and  execution.  Above 
all,  it  has  the  crowning  gift  of  making  an  old  story  as 
new  as  if  nobody  had  ever  told  it  before.  I  feel  as  if  I 
had  heard  the  waves  rustle  under  the  bows  of  the  Argo. 

I  suppose  you  are  at  Ashfield,  and  that  the  hills  are 
as  dear  as  ever,  and  Monadnock  as  like  a  purpose  unful 
filled.  Is  the  June  grass  golden  on  the  upper  slopes  ? 
Do  the  cloud -shadows  still  linger  and  hate  to  leave 
their  soft  beds  in  the  woods  and  grass  ?  Above  all,  are 
you  and  yours  well  and  remember  me  ?  And  G.  W.  C.  ? 

Sometimes  I  hear  faintly  the  notes  of  S 's  violin 

singing  "  Scheiden,  ach,  scheiden  !"  and  think  of  many 
things.  .  .  . 

TO    MRS.  EDWARD   BURNETT 

40  Clarges  Street,  Piccadilly,  W., 
Aug.  6,  1886. 

.  .  .  There  isn't  a  corner  of  England  that  has  not  its 
special  charm,  and  the  freaks  of  the  atmosphere  inter 
est  me  more  than  any  novel  I  ever  read. 


318  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1886 

My  last  visit  to  the  country  was  three  days  with  the 
Darwins  at  Basset,  which  has  more  pleasant  than  sad 
associations  for  me.  It  was  there  that  mamma  began 
first  to  mend.  I  thought  of  you  constantly.  My  bed 
room  window  looked  out  towards  the  New  Forest  where 
the  pony  came  from.  We  drove  to  the  ruins  of  an  old 
castle  (temp.  Hen.  II.),  standing  (or  falling)  in  a  park 
whose  turf  was  like  soft  moss.  If  trees  would  only 
grow  with  us  as  they  do  here,  where  their  leaves  are 
washed  and  their  roots  drink  every  day !  .  .  . 


TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Southborough,  Mass,, 
Oct.  21,  1886. 

...  I  am  in  despair  about  my  address.*  I  have  writ 
ten  a  page  only  and  made  some  notes.  The  bayonets 
must  prick  me  more  sharply  from  behind  to  set  me  go 
ing.  Why  did  the  Lord  make  us  with  ten  fingers  and 
toes  that  we  might  count  up  to  fifties  and  hundreds  and 
so  make  ourselves  capable  of  this  superstition  of  anni 
versaries?  Had  he  curtailed  our  left  foot,  for  instance, 
of  one  toe,  we  should  never  have  missed  it  except  as  a 
gout-trap,  and  could  never  have  divided  any  multiple 
of  nine  so  as  to  suit  our  stupid  love  of  symmetry.  The 
Japanese  might  have  done  it,  but  nobody  else.  There 
would  have  been  no  Cornelius,  and  Napoleon  would 
have  lost  his  pyramidal  allusion,  but  I  see  no  other 
harm  it  would  have  done. 


*  For  the  two  hundred  and  fiftieth  anniversary  of  the  founda 
tion  of  Harvard  University,  delivered  Nov.  8,  1886. 


1 886]  TO   C.  E.  NORTON   AND  W.  D.  HOWELLS  319 

I  have  no  books  up  here,  and  have  to  trust  to  my 
memory,  which  I  could  leave,  with  Lord  Bacon,  to 
after-generations  without  impoverishing  my  heirs. 

The  only  thing  that  has  made  me  feel  as  if  I  had 
any  life  in  [me]  of  late  was  the  music  I  heard  at  Shady 
Hill.  .  .  . 

TO    THE    SAME 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Southborough,  Mass., 
Oct.  26,  1886. 

.  .  .  The  address  drags  like  an  ox-sled  caught  away 
from  home  by  a  January  thaw.  It  will  not  take  hold 
of  me,  do  what  I  may.  I  have  written  a  fair  share  of 
it,  but  I  can't  conquer  our  mutual  alienation.  My 
pitcher  has  gone  once  too  often  to  the  well.  If  I 
could  scoop  up  a  few  drops  with  a  shard  of  it,  I  were 
happy.  But  the  well  itself  is  dry ! 

What  a  scurvy  trick  has  played  me !  If  he 

had  reported  what  I  really  said,  instead  of  his  version 
of  it,  I  should  not  feel  so  bitterly.  Well,  this  also  shall 
pass  away,  and  so  shall  we,  thank  God,  one  of  these 
days.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  Happy  Mirabeau,  to  whom  Dumont  supplied 
the  substance  of  his  speeches,  leaving  to  him  only  the 
fioriture  /  .  .  . 

TO   W.  D.  HOWELLS 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Southborough,  Mass., 
Nov.  11,  1886. 

...  I  was  very  sorry  not  to  be  able  to  be  with  you 
to-day.  I  would  have  come  if  I  could,  but  I  had  most 
imperative  proof-sheets  which  I  could  correct  only  here, 


32 O  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1886 

so  I  postponed  pleasure  to  duty.  "  Be  virtuous  and 
you  will  be  happy,"  says  Whistler,  "  only  you  won't 
have  a  good  time." 

I  am  happy  in  your  well-earned  fame,  my  dear  boy, 
and  have  just  been  reading  your  last  chapters  with  the 
feeling  Gray  had  about  Crebillon  fils.     Good-night. 
To-morrow  to  fresh  proofs  and  bothers  new  ! 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Southborough,  Mass., 
Nov.  22,  1886. 

...  I  have  been  reading  the  book*  with  the  greatest 
interest.  It  not  only  makes  Carlyle  more  agreeable  to 
me,  but  confirms  an  opinion  I  formed  several  years 
ago  in  reading  many  of  these  early  letters  (lent  to  me 
by  Mr.  Ireland),  that  I  know  no  man  of  letters  so  thor 
oughly  of  a  piece  as  Carlyle.  The  man  who  died  sixty- 
four  years  later  is  all  there  in  the  earliest  of  his  writ 
ing  that  we  have  (potentially  there,  in  character  wholly 
there).  And  it  is  a  fine  character  to  my  thinking,  es 
sentially  manly  and  helpful  to  the  core.  .  .  . 


TO    G.  H.  PALMER 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Southborough,  Mass., 
Nov.  30,  1886. 

...  I  wasn't  thinking  so  much  of  the  studies  as  of 
the  method  of  teaching  (by  recitation  and  in  divisions) 

*  Carlyle's  "  Early  Letters." 


1886]  TO    R.   W.  GILDER  321 

when  I  wrote  what  gravels  you.'*  I  dare  say  also,  as 
you  suggest,  that  I  was  thinking  more  of  what  the  Col 
lege  was  than  of  what  it  is.  There  is  a  certain  impru 
dence  in  letting  one's  self  live  to  be  sixty-eight  for  which 
one  always  has  to  pay.  Had  I  been  in  Cambridge  in 
stead  of  Southborough,  I  dare  say  I  should  have  written 
differently.  I  am  sure  I  should  had  I  heard  that  excel 
lent  essay  of  ycurs,  of  which  I  afterwards  listened  to  a 
part  with  sincere  admiration  and  profit. 

You  will  observe  that  I  have  inserted  a  qualifying 
sentence,  in  which  the  influence  of  that  essay  may  be 
traced. 

Nothing  could  have  been  further  from  my  thought 
than  to  give  aid  and  comfort  to  the  enemies  of  what  I 
heartily  approve  in  the  main.  Nescit  vox  missa  reverti, 
but  I  shall  be  in  Cambridge  this  week,  and  will  talk 
over  the  matter  with  Norton.  If  I  can  frame  such  a 
note  as  you  wish,  I  gladly  will.  .  .  . 

TO   R.  W.    GILDER 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Southborough,  Mass., 
Dec.  2,  1886. 

...  I  am  one  of  those  men  who  depend  greatly  on 
the  kind  offices  of  the  genius  loci,  and  am  a  good  while 
in  winning  the  confidence  of  a  new  one.  I  am  just  get 
ting  on  speaking  terms  with  the  shy  little  fellow  who 
has  charge  of  the  hills  and  pastures  and  woodpaths 
here,  but  am  not  yet  in  a  position  to  ask  him  for  a  let- 

*  A  sentence  in  the  Harvard  Address  in  which  justice  was 
hardly  done  to  the  advance  lately  made  in  the  University  in  the 
methods  of  instruction,  of  discipline,  and  of  investigation. 

II.— 21 


322  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [lSS6 

ter  of  introduction  to  his  cousin  in  Boston,  whom  I 
don't  know.  I  don't  believe  I  can  write  anything  there. 
But  we  shall  see.  At  any  rate,  I  have  been  mulling 
over  Landor,  and  shall  be  able  to  do  a  page  or  two  of 
personal  reminiscence  and  (pemmican)  criticism  wound 
up  [by]  an  epigram  of  my  own.  The  letters  are  less 
trivial  than  I  feared,  and  one  (about  his  dog  Pomero) 
really  touching.  .  .  . 

TO   T.  B.  ALDRICH 

Dec.  17,  1886. 

...  I  have  copied  it  all  and  I  am  tired,  and  it  seems 
uninspired  or  ill-inspired,  I  hardly  know  which.  But  I 
send  another  that  you  may  not  be  comfortless.  It  is 
shorter,  and  I  advise  you  to  take,  as  I  should,  the  small 
er  pill  of  the  two.  I  fear  the  long  one  ("Credidimus  Jo- 
vem  Regnare  ")  will  overrun  your  six  pages,  perhaps  I 
hope  it.  Cut  out  what  you  please.  There  are  two  or 
three  bright  spots.  If  these  be  left,  all  will  be  well. 
Don't  be  tempted  by  a  paginal  vacuum  to  wrong  your 
editorial  conscience.  Be  frank  ;  I  am  old  and  can  stand 
it.  My  advice  is — cage  the  cuckoo  !  'Tis  of  the  last 
century  rather,  but  no  harm  in  that.  ...  If  I  hadn't 
lost  a  couplet  I  made  last  night  while  lying  awake, 
there  would  have  been  one  good  verse  in  the  longer 
poem.  Always  keep  pencil  and  paper,  as  bird-lime,  at 
the  head  of  your  bed.  'Tis  worth  more  than  "  a  twenty 
Bookes  clothed  in  black  and  red  "  —  unless,  indeed,  they 
are  your  own  books.  What  shall  I  call  it  ?  Will  "  A 
Grumble"  do?*  .  .  . 

*  The  little  poem  was  finally  named  "  Fact  or  Fancy?"  Both 
poems  appeared  in  the  Atlantic  Monthly. 


1886]  TO    C.   E.   NORTON  323 

TO    C.  E.  NORTON 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Southborough,  Mass., 
Dec.  24,  1886. 

...  I  cant  do  what  they  wish  me  to  do  in  New 
York.  The  consciousness  that  I  had  it  to  do  would  be 
so  constantly  foraging  on  my  equanimity  and  therefore 
laying  waste  my  time,  that  not  a  vine  or  a  wheat-stalk 
would  be  left  me.  If  I  could  only  so  far  conquer  my 
shyness  as  to  be  able  to  stand  up  and  let  myself  run,  I 
would  go  with  pleasure.  How  I  envied  the  rector  of 
St.  Olave's  when  the  Pepys  Memorial  was  unveiled  !  He 
simply  flowed  in  the  labitur  et  labetur  fashion  as  freely 
as  if  he  had  been  a  Roman  conduit.  I  knew  my  Pepys. 
I  went  without  notes,  but  with  my  head  full  of  delight 
ful  things  to  say  about  him,  and  when  I  got  up  there 
was  a  kind  of  cr-r-r-oo  in  my  brain — the  noise  of  all  my 
fine  things  flying  away  from  me  like  a  flock  of  black 
birds  when  one  comes  suddenly  on  them  over  noiseless 
ploughed  land.  I  forgot  even  to  say  (though  the  only 
one  there  who  knew)  that  St.  Olaf  was  the  first  viking 
ever  honored  with  that  promotion — unless  St.  Magnus 
was — and  that  therefore  he  would  be  sure  to  take  good 
care  of  the  soul  of  a  naval  secretary  which  stood  sadly 
in  need  of  such  official  intervention.  I  wonder  at  my 
own  audacity  when  I  remember  how  I  used  to  get  up  as 
President  of  the  Phi  Beta  or  the  Alumni  and  trust  to 
the  spur  of  the  moment.  Yet  I  am  alive  to  tell  you  so ! 
No ;  I  must  be  left  in  such  peace  as  I  can  contrive  for 
myself.  Why,  my  dear  boy,  I  am  going  on  to  seventy. 
Nobody  suspects  it,  least  of  all  I. 


324  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1886 

I  have  got  my  Landor  letters  off  my  hands  at  last 
— my  " brief  preface"  resulting  in  twelve  quarto  pages 
of  manuscript  as  close-written  as  this !  I  can't  tell  what 
it  is  till  I  see  it  in  print.  .  .  . 

Now  I  shall  buckle  myself  to  my  introduction  to  the 
"  Progress  of  the  World."  It  rather  attracts  me  through 
my  sense  of  humor.  It  will  be  pure  creation  made  out 
of  nothing,  not  even  nebula  or  star-dust.  .  .  . 

TO    MISS   LAWRENCE 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Southborough,  Mass., 
Christmas  Day,  1886. 

.  .  .  Clever  people  are  apt  to  be  lucky,  and  when  they 
are  clever  and  nice  too,  as  they  sometimes  are,  they  are 
sure  to  hit  right.  So  I  wasn't  a  bit  surprised  that  your 
kind  letter,  with  its  Christmas  greetings,  should  arrive 
this  very  morning,  as  if  it  had  ridden  post  itself,  and 
could  therefore  adjust  its  speed  to  the  occasion. 

...  I  like  to  be  serious  all  by  myself,  and  to  play 
when  I  throw  my  working  jacket  off.  Everybody 
should  write  on  my  title-pages,  ridcntem  dicere  verum 
quid  vetat  ?  I  have  had  reasons  (if  any  man)  for  taking 
life  in  earnest,  but  it  pleased  the  Lord  to  fit  me  with  an 
"^Eolian  Attachment,"  which  will  strike  in  at  the  invi 
tation  of  any  breeze  that  takes  it  into  its  head  to  blow, 
and  I  don't  think  it  respectful  to  balk  him. 

I  hadn't  forgotten  my  promise — so  far  from  it  that  I 
had  a  twinge  now  and  then.  But  I  found  there  were 
some  misprints,  and  was  content  to  wait  for  a  new  edi 
tion.  As  I  commonly  hate  my  own  books,  I  dton't  easily 
conceive  of  anybody  else  hungering  after  them.  If  my 


1 886]  TO   WALKER   FEARN  325 

friends  only  like  me,  forty  thousand  what's-his-names  may 
fly  away  with  what  I  write.  Then,  too,  I  live  in  Grub 
Street — so  called  because  nobody  is  allowed  to  turn 
butterfly  there — and  its  inhabitants  may  call  their  time 
their  own  if  they  will,  but  it  is  somebody  else's  all  the 
same.  But  I  send  a  copy  by  the  same  post  with  the 
errata  corrected  in  my  own  neat  hand,  which  will  add 
to  its  value  whenever  it  goes  to  the  book-stall !  .  .  . 

Yes,  your  scandals  are  bad  enough  and  sad  enough ; 
but  I  saw  a  good  deal  of  people  who  are  called  of  "  a 
certain  class  "  while  I  was  in  England,  and  they  seemed 
to  me  as  clean  as  New-Englanders,  and  that  is  saying  a 
good  deal.  Take  such  as  the  Cowpers,  the  Greys,  the 
Stanhopes,  the  Lytteltons,  the  Ashleys,  to  name  no 
more,  and  where  will  you  find  purer  or  better? 

...  I  write  to  you  instead  of  going  to  church — but 
I  sent  my  oblation  to  the  offertory.  I  am  a  conserv 
ative  (warranted  to  wash),  and  keep  on  the  safe  side — 
with  God  as  against  Evolution — but  I  do  hate  going  to 
church.  If  Dr.  Donne  or  Jeremy  Taylor,  or  even  Dr. 
South,  were  the  preacher,  perhaps — but  I  don't  know. . . . 

TO  WALKER   FEARN 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Southborough,  Mass. 
Christmas  Day,  1886. 

Dear  Mr.  Fearn, — I  am  much  obliged  by  your  very 
friendly  remembrance  of  me,  and  glad  to  be  assured  by 
yourself  (I  had  heard  it  from  others  before)  of  the  in 
terest  you  take  in  the  American  School  of  Classical 
Studies  at  Athens.  In  order  to  hold  and  manage  any 
funds  that  might  come  to  our  address,  we  have  had 


326  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1886 

ourselves  incorporated  under  the  Massachusetts  law, 
and  I  am  president  of  the  Corporation.  .  .  . 

Yes,  I  have  been  at  Athens — et  ego  in  Arcadia — and 
shall  never  outwear  the  impression  I  brought  away. 
Pardon  what  looks  like  a  pun  when  I  say  that  as  I 
stood  gazing  up  at  the  Acropolis,  many  new  sensations 
were  born  in  me  by  a  very  natural  parthenogenesis. 
Perhaps  what  comes  back  to  me  oftenest  when  I  think 
of  Greece  is  the  outline  of  the  mountains,  inexplicably 
graceful  as  if  modelled  by  Pheidias,  and  the  color  of 
the  sea.  I  am  glad  to  hear  that  you  are  happy  there. 
It  is  good  to  be  so  anywhere,  but  in  Athens  must  be 
best  of  all ! 

I  am  glad  also  that  you  liked  my  address.  It  was 
first  printed  in  a  supplement  to  the  Atlantic  Monthly, 
and  I  shall  ask  my  publishers  to  send  you  the  copies 
for  which  you  ask  through  the  Department  of  State. 
It  was  a  very  interesting  occasion  and  went  off  well. 
The  President,  I  am  glad  to  say,  was  received  with 
great  warmth  and  was  deeply  gratified — as  indeed  he 
more  than  once  told  me  with  a  great  deal  of  feeling. 
With  all  his  firmness  he  has  a  very  tender  and  sympa 
thetic  nature,  or  I  am  much  mistaken.  I  think  he  has 
made  some  sad  mistakes,  but  he  is  gaining  ground  with 
general  public  opinion,  and  I  know  how  difficult  his 
position  is. 

You  speak  of  the  pleasant  people  you  see.  This 
is  one  great  advantage  of  Athens,  that,  being  a  little 
harder  to  get  at  than  Rome,  fewer  of  the  wrong  kind 
of  people  get  there.  You  must  find  much  to  interest 
you  also  in  your  other  posts,  especially  of  late.  You 


1887]  TO   c-  E-  NORTON  327 

are  the  very  Cerberus  of  ambassadors — three  rolled 
into  one  ! 

I  was  pleased  to  hear  of  your  appointment,  and 
should  have  written  to  say  so  had  I  known  just  where 
you  were.  It  is  not  too  late  to  say  so  now. 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   C.   E.  NORTON 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Southborough,  Mass., 
Jan.  i,  1887. 

...  I  am  "  awfully  "  afraid  (as  my  grandchildren  will 

say — no  d g  will  stay  this  neophrastic  flood)  that 

I  have  lost  my  Emerson  letters.  At  any  rate,  I  have 
mislaid  'em.  They  are  no  longer  in  the  little  trunk 
where  I  kept  them,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  I  took 
them  out,  meaning  to  give  them  to  you.  I  have  one 
hope  and  only  one — that  they  may  be  in  a  desk  I  use 
at  my  sister's.  I  am  sorry,  for  I  valued  his  verses 
written  for  a  dinner  given  me  on  my  fortieth  birthday, 
in  1859.  I  read  them  over  when  I  made  away  with 
them  last  year.  There  will  hardly  be  any  other  copy, 
for  he  gave  me  the  original  manuscript,  evidently  writ 
ten  in  haste.  I  remember  he  praised  my  healthy  tem 
perament  (I'm  glad  he  didn't  know  it  so  well  as  I), 
calling  me  "  well-born  Lowell,"  and,  what  interested 
me  more,  prophesied  that,  if  the  time  ever  came  for 
it,  I  should  "lighten"  or  " thunder,"  I  forget  which, 
perhaps  both,  for  one  is  easy  after  you  have  accom 
plished  t'other.  I  hope  I  shall  find  them  yet,  for  I  am 
sometimes  luckier  than  I  deserve  in  that  way.  .  .  . 


328  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1887 

Have  the  clouds  been  playing  the  confectioner  with 
you  and  are  your  trees  all  sugar-candied  as  ours  are  ? 
I  suppose  not,  for  we  are  five  hundred  feet  nearer 
heaven  than  you  —  a  great  start,  if  I  should  be  put 
under  ground  here.  I  look  out  of  window  and  see  the 
woods  grown  grayer  than  I  of  a  sudden,  and  find  a  sort 
of  comfort  in  it.  They  have  such  a  knack  of  renew 
ing  their  youth  in  the  spring,  confound  'em  !  My  sap 
feels  the  spur  of  the  young  year  too,  but  won't  do  any 
thing  for  my  hair  as  it  does  for  theirs.  I  know  a  tree 
or  two  that  I  would  swap  with  if  I  had  my  life  to  be 
gin  over  again.  Then  one  might  be  made  into  a  violin, 
perhaps,  or  into  a  coffin  for  somebody  one  hated,  for 
trees  have  their  likes  and  dislikes;  they've  often  told 
me  so.  ... 

TO   MISS   GRACE   NORTON 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Southborough,  Mass., 
Jan.  3,  1887. 

...  I  don't  get  on  with  the  world  at  all  since  I  half 
promised  to  write  an  introduction  to  the  "  World's 
Progress,"  a  megatherium  of  a  book  in  two  volumes 
quarto.  I  hear  their  heavy  footfall  behind  me  wher 
ever  I  go,  and  am  sure  they  will  trample  me  into  the 
mud  at  last.  .  .  . 

Oh,  if  you  could  see  my  moon — for  all  mine  she  must 
be  now  if,  as  I  have  no  doubt,  I  am  the  last  person  up 
in  all  this  village  !  I  am  having  the  luxury  of  a  private 
view,  and  hasn't  she  found  a  new  plaything  in  this 
plated  snow,  across  which  she  has  drawn  a  long  moon- 
glade  as  over  the  sea  !  She  is  evidently  wondering  why 


1887]  TO   THOMAS    HUGHES  329 

these  multitudinous  hill-waves  of  ours  show  no  emo 
tion,  and  thinks  that  either  the  ocean's  heart  has  ceased 
to  beat  or  grown  as  insensible  as  Endymion's.  And 
every  jutting  bowlder  is  a  Kohinoor  almost  big  enough 
for  the  shirt  front  of  a  New  York  alderman  on  his  way 
to  Sing  Sing.  How  I  wish  you  could  see  it,  with  your 
poor  suburban  planet  vainly  trying  to  get  an  effect  of 
light  and  shade  out  of  the  enormous  flank  of  Memo 
rial  Hall.  And  all  the  while  the  cold  is  so  still  that  I 
am  sure  it  means  mischief.  .  .  . 

TO   THOMAS   HUGHES 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Southborough,  Mass., 
Jan.  10,  1887. 

Dear  Tom  Brown, — Your  friendship  is  very  dear  to 
me,  and  accordingly  I  was  very  glad  to  get  so  pleas 
ant  a  reminder  of  it,  and  to  be  assured  that  you  were 
happy  in  your  new  home,  as  you,  if  ever  any  man,  de 
serve  to  be.  I  look  forward  now  to  no  removal  except 
to  the  narrow  house  that  contrives  to  hold  us  all,  and 
hope  to  be  comfortable  there,  though  it  do  not  com 
mand  such  a  prospect  as  yours.  I  have  seen  it,  you 
remember,  and  thought,  as  the  American  young  woman 
of  the  period  (born  out  of  Boston)  would  say,  that  it 
was  "just  lovely!"  If  I  had,  or  could  have,  a  perch, 
I  think  I  could  be  content  there.  You  are  beyond 
reach  of  the  noise  and  smoke  of  Babylon,  but  within 
reach  of  its  Hanging  Gardens,  for  may  I  not  call  so 
those  of  the  Temple  where  you  breed  your  Judges ! 
Felix  nimiumy  tua  si  bona  noris,  as  so  few  of  us  do, 
though  you  seem  to  be  wiser. 


330  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1887 

My  new  book  will  be  coming  to  you  by  and  by.  It 
would  have  come  to  you  sooner,  but  that  some  vile 
misprints  were  discovered  in  the  first  edition  which  held 
my  hand.  So  don't  think  the  fifth  thousand  on  the 
title-page  (P.  S.  It  isn't,  I  find  on  undoing  the  pack 
age)  implies  neglect,  but  only  the  second  edition  of 
twenty-five  hundred  copies.  Rejoice  with  me  that  I 
am  getting  popular  in  my  old  age,  and  hope  to  pay  my 
this  year's  trip  to  the  dear  old  Home  without  defraud 
ing  my  grandchildren.  I  get  twenty-five  cents,  I  think 
it  is,  on  copies  sold  during  the  first  eight  months  after 
publication,  and  then  it  goes  into  my  general  copy 
rights,  for  which  I  am  paid  £400  a  year.  Not  much 
after  nearly  fifty  years  of  authorship,  but  enough  to 
keep  me  from  the  almshouse. 

I  am  sorry  you  have  no  grandchildren,  for  I  enjoy 
mine  more  and  more.  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to 
take  them  as  they  are,  and  not  fash  my  beard  too  much 
when  they  say  will  for  shall  (the  infection  of  which  is 
now  universal  and  past  cure)  or  "  I  don't  know  as." 
They  talk  as  naturally  through  their  noses  as  friars  sing 
through  'em.  'Tis  an  innovation  in  our  family,  and  I 
hope  they'll  get  over  it — but  'twill  be  too  late  for  me. 
I  am  thinking  of  making  the  eldest  (my  namesake)  take 
my  name  in  full  and  receive  what  heirlooms  I  have  to 
leave,  on  condition  that  a  jury  of  Britons  pronounce 
him  not  guilty  of  this  offence. 

I  am  to  be  very  busy  this  winter ;  indeed  I  fear  I  have 
undertaken  more  than  I  can  do  well,  for  I  can't  always 
write  when  I  would,  though  I  set  myself  never  so  dog 
gedly  about  it.  And  Johnson  himself,  how  little  he'd 


1887]  TO   THOMAS    HUGHES  331 

have  left  us  but  for  Boswell !  However,  I  am  going  to 
talk  on  politics  to  the  people  of  Chicago  on  my  next 
birthday,  and  to  give  six  lectures  before  the  Lowell  In 
stitute  in  March.  The  latter  will  give  me  three  or  four 
hundred  pounds,  which  will  be  a  lift.  If  ever  you  have 
grandchildren  you  will  grow  miserly  and  approve  of  en 
tails.  Depend  upon  it  'twas  grandfathers  invented  'em. 
My  own  died  seventeen  years  before  I  was  invented,  or 
perhaps  I  should  be  driving  in  my  coach  at  this  moment. 
On  the  whole  I  think  I  am  better  employed  in  writing 
to  you.  .  .  . 

P.  S.  I  have  not  thanked  you  for  your  kindness  to 

young  B .  He  is  carried  away  just  now  by  the 

Something  Brothers,  a  kind  of  Anglican  monks  (with 
out  monasteries)  who  wear  cords  round  their  waists, 
but  resemble  St.  Francis  in  no  other  particular  that  I 
can  discover.  If  these  hempen  girdles  were  worn  in 
readiness  for  extemporal  application  to  the  gullets  of 
many  of  our  public  functionaries,  I  would  join  the  or 
der  myself.  We  need  some  strong  doses  of  the  herb 
Pantagruelion. 

Pray,  who  is  "  F.  T."  who  has  been  writing  about  me 
in  so  friendly  a  way  in  the  Cornhill?  He  is  a  little  out 
now  and  then,  but  strikes  me  as  in  the  main  judicious. 
He  is  wrong  about  the  second  part  of  the  "  Biglow 
Papers."  I  think  had  he  read  these  first,  he  would  have 
seen  they  had  more  permanent  qualities  than  their  pre 
decessors,  less  fun  and  more  humor  perhaps.  And 
pray  what  natural  scenery  would  he  have  me  describe 
but  my  own  ?  If  you  know  him,  tell  him  I  think  two 
European  birds  beat  any  of  ours,  the  nightingale  and 


332  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1887 

the  blackbird.  The  lark  beats  any  of  them  also  by 
sentiment  and  association,  though  not  vocally.  I  sup 
pose  I  should  have  been  a  more  poetical  poet  if  I  had 
not  been  a  professor.  A  poet  should  feed  on  nothing 
but  poetry,  as  they  used  to  say  a  drone  could  be  turned 
into  a  queen-bee  by  a  diet  of  bee-bread.  However,  my 
poems  have  mostly  written  themselves  and  I  cannot 
account  for  them.  But  nothing  is  so  uncomfortable  as 
an  analysis  of  one's  own  qualities. 

Give  my  love  to  England  in  general.  I  am  as  proud 
of  my  two  doctor's  gowns  as  Dogberry  of  his  two 
cloaks,  or  M.  Jourdain  of  his  two  lackeys.  .  .  . 


TO  C.  E.  NORTON 

Deerfoot,  Jan.  26,  1887. 

.  .  .  What  do  you  suppose  I  was  doing  at  between 
two  and  three  last  night?  I  couldn't  sleep  and  so — 
I  took  up  Seneca's  "  Medea."  I  hadn't  read  it  for 
forty-eight  years,  and  all  I  remembered  of  it  was  Medea 
superest.  I  had  forgotten  that  the  venient  annis,  etc., 
was  from  there.  I  suppose  his  Latin  is  not  very  good, 
but  now  and  then  there  is  a  cadence  that  sticks  in  one's 
ear,  and  a  kind  of  Dr.  Young  sublimity,  as  where  Medea 
by  her  incantations  draws  down  the  serpent  of  Ophi- 
ucus  to  earth.  The  passion  is  that  of  a  stoic,  and 
leaves  one  stoical.  He  is  turgid  enough  in  all  con 
science,  and  when  he  swells  gets  turbid  too,  and  brings 
along  with  him  whatever  he  comes  across,  trees  and 
bridges  and  cattle  and  herdsmen  and  Orpheus's  head 
and  mud,  lots  of  it.  And  yet  I  take  a  certain  pleasure 


1887]  TO    R.  W.  GILDER  333 

in  watching  him  go  it  —  only  one  feels  that  it  is  all 
let  on,  as  Kauterskill  Fall  used  to  be.  Lucan  came 
fairly  by  his  style  (a  sort  of  Roman  Cowley  he),  and  I 
am  glad  I  took  up  the  book,  since  I  bethought  me  for 
the  first  time  that  Lucan  was  the  true  protogenist  of 
the  concettisti.  . 


TO   R.  W.  GILDER 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Feb.  9, 1887. 

...  I  have  often  wondered  if  men  lying  supine  "  up 
back  of  the  meeting-house  "  (as  we  say  here)  may  not 
sometimes  wile  away  the  time  by  reading  their  own  ep 
itaphs — no  doubt  with  some  surprise  in  most  cases,  and 
perhaps  (if  in  Latin)  with  some  difficulty,  though  prob 
ably  with  a  leaning  towards  favorable  interpretation 
where  there  was  any  doubt.  To  a  certain  extent  I  real 
ized  my  own  fancy  in  reading  your  proofs.  In  a  liter 
ary  life  of  now  almost  fifty  years  this  is  the  first  time 
I  was  ever  admitted  to  the  confidence  of  anything  writ 
ten  about  myself.  I  should  have  refused  it  now  if  I 
thought  of  it  in  time.-  But  I  had  forgotten  your  prom 
ise  to  send  me  the  proofs.  However,  as  the  Lowell  of 
twenty-four  years  ago  is  grown  a  comparative  stranger 
and  an  object  of  scientific  curiosity  to  me,  I  won't  send 
back  your  proofs  unread  through  an  over-scrupulosity. 

I  have  made  a  translation  such  as  it  is  of  the  Italian 
verses.  I  can't  remember  now  whose  they  are.  Not 
Petrarch's,  I  think ;  perhaps  Leopardi's,  whom  I  used  to 
read  in  those  days. 

What  you  say  about  Bryant  interests  me  very  much. 


334  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1887 

Never  being  a  great  reader  of  newspapers,  and  never  see 
ing  the  Evening  Post  (which  I  thought  Godwin's  mainly), 
I  knew  nothing  about  the  matter.  I  am  all  the  gladder 
I  wrote  my  poem  for  Bryant's  birthday — a  kind  of  palin 
ode  to  what  I  said  of  him  in  the  "  Fable  for  Critics,"  which 
has  something  of  youth's  infallibility  in  it,  or  at  any  rate 
of  youth's  irresponsibility.  Besides,  I  wrote  it  (slap 
dash,  in  less  than  a  week,  I  think)  with  no  notion  of 
publication.  That  was  the  doing  of  my  friend  C.  F. 
Briggs  (with  whom  I  grew  acquainted  through  Page), 
and  to  whom  I  sent  it  as  fast  as  it  was  written ;  if  I  re 
member,  I  gave  him  the  copyright.  It  turned  out  a  bet 
ter  gift  than  I  expected,  for  it  was  the  first  (perhaps  the 
only)  popular  thing  of  mine.  Under  my  own  name  I 
was  tainted  with  Abolitionism,  to  which  I  swore  fealty 
in  1839.  The  "  Fable  "  (luckily  for  Briggs)  was  anony 
mous.  So  were  all  the  first  series  of  "  Biglow  Papers  " 
as  they  originally  appeared,  and  I  had  great  fun  out  of 
it.  I  have  often  wished  that  I  could  have  had  a  literary 
nom  de  guerre  and  kept  my  own  to  myself.  I  shouldn't 
have  cared  a  doit  what  happened  to  him. 

But  I  am  writing  an  autobiography  —  I  must  pull 
up.  ... 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Deerfoot  Farm,  April  8,  1887. 

...  I  am  trying  to  get  rested  by  reading  Dickens, 
and  am  over  "  David  Copperfield  "  now.  I  had  never 
read  it,  I  find,  though  Mr.  Micawber  has  become  so  pro 
verbial  that,  finding  his  name  in  it,  I  thought  I  had. 
Dickens  says  in  his  preface  that  David  Copperfield  was 


1887]  TO    THOMAS    HUGHES  335 

his  "  favorite  child,"  and  I  don't  wonder,  for  it  is  amaz 
ingly  well  done  so  far  as  I  have  got. 

We  have  got  back  the  birds  again,  but  in  this  weather 
they  seem  as  unseasonable  as  autumn  blossoms  on  the 
trees.  I  hope  it  is  warmer  in  your  parts.  The  only 
bird  that  has  my  entire  sympathy  is  a  woodpecker 
which  has  been  tapping  at  an  elm  opposite  my  window 
all  the  morning,  as  much  as  to  ask, "  Is  Spring  at  home?" 
He  has  made  up  his  mind  that  she  isn't  even  expected, 
and  has  flown  away.  Still,  there  is  a  certain  cheer  in 
the  bluebirds.  They  bid  me  not  despair  every  day.  .  .  . 

TO   THOMAS   HUGHES 

Deerfoot  Farm,  April  16,  1887. 

My  dear  Friend, — I  have  just  received  your  "  Life  of 
Fraser,"  *  and  have  read  enough  of  it  to  see  that  I  shall 
find  it  very  interesting.  He  was  just  the  manly  kind  of 
fellow  to  awaken  all  your  sympathy,  and  accordingly  I 
was  not  surprised  to  see  (before  I  got  the  book)  that 
opinion  was  unanimous  as  to  how  admirably  you  had 
written  his  biography.  Notwithstanding  his  Scottish 
name,  he  was  a  peculiarly  English  type  of  man,  a  type 
which  I  trust  will  long  continue  to  be  characteristic  of 
the  dear  Old  Home. 

I  naturally  follow  your  politics  with  great  interest. 
You  and  I  don't  agree  about  the  Irish  question,  I  think, 
but  we  are  sure  to  be  of  one  mind  about  the  Coercion 
Bill.  It  amuses  me  to  see  the  Grand  Old  Man  using 
the  same  arguments  against  this  bill  that  I  vainly  urged 

*  Bishop  of  Manchester. 


336  .  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1887 

against  "  his  "  bill  five  years  ago.  You  know  that  I  am 
"  principled  agin  "  indulging  in  prophecy,  but  I  made 
one  at  that  time  which  has  been  curiously  verified.  I 
used  to  ask,  "  Suppose  the  Irish  nation  should  strike, 
what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  They  have  struck, 
and  I  am  still  at  a  loss.  I  am  glad  to  see  that  their  tone 
over  here  is  much  more  moderate  than  it  was.  "  Studi 
ously  moderate,"  you  will  say.  But  I  think  they  begin 
to  see  the  difficulties  more  clearly  than  they  did.  Mean 
while  the  coercion  policy  is  crowding  the  emigrant  ships 
to  this  country,  and  we  have  already  as  many  as  we  can 
digest  at  present.  We  are  really  interested  in  your  Irish 
question  in  more  ways  than  one.  It  is  really  we  who  have 
been  paying  the  rents  over  there,  for  we  have  to  pay 
higher  wages  for  domestic  service  to  meet  the  drain. 

But  I  did  not  mean  to  write  a  letter  when  I  began, 
still  less  a  political  letter,  but  only  to  say  that  I  sail 
by  the  Pavonia  on  the  2ist,  and  mean  to  stop  over 
and  smoke  a  pipe  with  you  before  going  up  to  London. 
So  expect  me  about  the  2d  May,  and  get  some  fine 
weather  and  plenty  of  thrushes  and  blackbirds  ready  for 
me.  We  have  been  having  a  "  saltatory  "  winter,  all 
ups  and  downs.  Old  Hiems  has  behaved  like  the  guest 
of  the  Satyr  in  the  fable — blowing  hot  and  cold — till  we 
are  glad  to  turn  him  out  of  doors.  But  the  birds  are 
come  at  last,  though  our  landscape  is  as  sallow  as  ever. 
Hardly  a  blade  of  green  to  keep  the  poor  dears  in  heart. 
But  the  wild  geese  have  been  flying  northward,  and  of 
course  "they"  know.  At  any  rate,  the  tame  ones  are 
supposed  to,  or  else  what  faith  could  one  have  in  a  gov 
ernment  of  majorities  ? 


1887]  TO    MRS.   EDWARD    BURNETT  337 

I  shall  be  glad  to  clasp  your  honest  hand  again, 
which  has  done  so  much  good  work  for  all  good  things. 
Meanwhile,  with  love  to  Mrs.  Hughes,  I  am  always 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   MRS.  EDWARD   BURNETT 

2  Radnor  Place,  Hyde  Park,  W., 
May  22,  1887. 

.  .  .  Nothing  can  be  more  bewildering  than  the  sud 
den  change  in  my  habits  and  surroundings.  Were  it 
merely  from  the  dumbness  of  Southborough  to  the  clat 
ter  and  chatter  of  London,  it  would  be  queer  enough ; 
from  the  rising  and  falling  murmur  of  the  mill  to  this 
roar  of  the  human  torrent.  But  I  can  hardly  help 
laughing  sometimes  when  I  think  how  a  single  step 
from  my  hermitage  takes  me  into  Babylon.  Meanwhile 
it  amuses  and  interests  me.  My  own  vitality  seems  to 
reinforce  itself  as  if  by  some  unconscious  transfusion  of 
the  blood  from  these  ever-throbbing  arteries  of  life  into 
my  own.  Upon  my  word,  I  think  I  am  beginning  in  my 
old  age  to  find  a  more  impressive  and  poignant  solitude 
in  the  Great  City  than  in  the  country.  I  get  all  the 
country  I  want  in  the  Park,  which  is  within  five  min 
utes  of  me,  and  the  song  of  the  thrush  is  more  pathetic 
there,  like  a  quotation  of  poetry  in  a  dreary  page  of 
prose. 

Last  evening  as  I  drove  to  dinner  through  the  Edg- 

ware  Road  I  seemed  to  get  a  glimpse  of  Fairyland  in 

the  Saturday-night  fair  which  stretches  along  one  side 

of  the  way  and  runs  over  into  the  by-streets.     A  dingy 

II.— 22 


338  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1887 

fairyland  truly,  and  yet  so  remote  from  all  my  ordinary 
associations  as  to  become  poetic. 

At  dinner,  by  the  way,  I  was  glad  to  meet  John  Mor- 
ley  for  the  first  time  since  my  return.  He  welcomed 
me  most  cordially,  but  looks  older  and  a  little  worn  with 
the  constant  friction  of  politics.  But  the  cheerful  fanat 
icism  of  his  face  is  always  exhilarating  to  me,  though  I 
feel  that  it  would  have  the  same  placidly  convinced  ex 
pression  if  my  head  were  rolling  at  his  feet  at  the  exi 
gence  of  some  principle.  He  knows  where  he  stands  on 
the  Home  Rule  question  better  than  Gladstone,  for  his 
opinions  are  more  the  result  of  conviction  than  of  sen 
timent. 

My  thrushes  are  singing  under  every  discouragement, 
for  everybody  (with  the  usual  shortness  of  memory  and 
joy  in  generalization)  agrees  that  "  there  never  was 
such  weather !"  It  has  been  and  is  indeed  very  cold, 
but  the  palace  of  English  summer  is  always  built  of  ice, 
and  I  continue  to  think  the  London  climate  the  best  in 
the  world.  At  any  rate  it  suits  me.  .  .  . 

TO   C.  E.   NORTON 

2  Radnor  Place,  Hyde  Park,  W., 
May  26,  1887. 

...  I  do  like  London,  and  it  gives  a  fillip  to  my 
blood,  now  growing  more  sluggish  than  it  used  to  be. 
I  love  to  stand  in  the  middle  of  the  Park  and  forget 
myself  in  that  dull  roar  of  ever-circulating  life  which 
bears  a  burden  to  the  song  of  the  thrush  I  am  listen 
ing  to.  It  is  far  more  impressive  than  Niagara,  which 
has  nothing  else  to  do  and  can't  help  itself.  In  this 


1887]  TO   C.  E.  NORTON  339 

vast  torrent  all  the  drops  are  men.  There !  I  have 
unconsciously  written  a  pentameter  and  it  is  time  to 
stop. 

I  have  seen  Gladstone  several  times,  and  he  is  light- 
hearted  as  a  boy — as  lightheaded,  too,  I  might  almost 
say.  I  am  amazed  at  the  slowness  of  people  here  in 
seeing  that  the  ice  they  have  been  floating  on  is  about 
to  break  up — nay,  will  at  the  first  rough  water.  The 
Irish  question  is  only  incidental  to  the  larger  question 
of  their  whole  system  of  landholding,  and  the  longer 
they  delay  settling  that  the  more  inevitable  is  it  that 
this  should  stir  itself.  It  is  a  misfortune  and  not  a 
crime  to  be  entangled  in  an  anachronism,  but  if  one 
won't  do  what  he  can  to  break  loose  one  must  share  its 
fate  without  complaint  or  hope  of  compensation.  You 
will  be  glad  to  hear  that  Morley  has  made  himself  re 
spected  both  in  Parliament  and  out  of  it,  though  on 
what  is  now  the  unpopular  side.  I  think  it  will  be  the 
winning  one  in  the  end,  for  the  stars  in  their  courses  are 
fighting  against  Sisera,  and  Sisera  refuses  to  lift  his  eyes 
to  them.  It  is  a  curious  touch  of  nature  that  there 
should  be  such  bitterness  against  Chamberlain — as  if  a 
self-made  man  had  no  right  to  opinions  of  his  own,  as 
the  sons  of  dukes  have  as  a  matter  of  course.  I  met 
him  last  night  at  old  Lady  Stanley's  (of  Alderley),  and 
he  didn't  show  any  sign  of  disheartenment.  She  is  one 
of  my  favorites.  She  reminds  me  of  the  people  I  used 
to  see  when  I  was  young — so  frankly  themselves.  But 
this  was  before  our  individuality  had  been  trampled  out 
of  us  by  the  Irish  mob.  .  .  . 


340  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1887 

TO   MRS.  EDWARD   BURNETT 

2  Radnor  Place,  Hyde  Park,  W., 
June  12,  1887. 

...  I  was  very  glad  to  get  your  letters  day  before  yes 
terday,  one  of  them  including  that  of  Joe.  It  was  a  sta 
tistical  letter  (as  those  of  boys  are  apt  to  be),  and  told 
me  just  what  I  wanted  to  know — the  blossoming  of  the 
apple  and  pear  trees  and  the  greenness  of  the  lawn. 
He  forgot  to  say  how  my  friend  the  brook  was,  but  as 
you  speak  of  a  three  days'  rain,  I  have  no  doubt  he  is 
in  good  health  and  spirits,  rolling  his  amber  over  the 
dam  with  a  full  heart.  Many  a  night  have  I  listened  to 
him  crooning  his  poems  to  himself  and  the  embowering 
elm-trees.  Joe's  letter  I  was  glad  to  find  carefully  writ 
ten.  I  am  sorry  that  he  is  to  lose  his  European  trip, 
but  dare  say  the  Beverly  shore  will  do  quite  as  much 
for  his  health.  After  all,  the  kind  of  world  one  carries 
about  in  one's  self  is  the  important  thing,  and  the  world 
outside  takes  all  its  grace,  color,  and  value  from  that. 

...  I  am  glad  you  have  been  reading  Howell's  let 
ters.  The  book  is  not  so  good  as  Charles  Lamb  fancied 
it.  His  favorites  were  always  a  lover's  "  inexpressive 
Shes,"  endowed  with  every  charm  out  of  himself.  If  it 
was  my  copy  of  the  letters  you  have  been  reading,  you 
will  find  some  interesting  proposals  for  a  reform  of 
spelling  (by  Howell)  on  a  leaf  at  the  end.  .  .  . 

TO    MRS.  LESLIE  STEPHEN 

Whitby,  Aug.  16,  1887. 
.  .  .  Your  letter  lost  a  couple  of  days  by  going  to 


1887]  TO   MISS    SEDGWICK  341 

seek  me  at  Radnor  Place.  I  have  been  here  for  a  week, 
and  find  Whitby  as  delightful  as  ever.  The  Abbey 
stares  at  me  with  the  empty  sockets  of  its  eyes,  and 
tries,  I  think,  to  get  a  little  friendly  expression  into 
them.  St.  Hilda  seems  to  welcome  me  back,  but  I  am 
not  sure  that  Csedmon  would  be  glad  to  see  a  brother 
poet.  Goethe,  you  know,  talks  of  the  roaring  loom  of 
Time,  and  I  suppose  he  weaves  us  all  in  somehow  or 
other,  whether  we  like  it  or  no.  Of  you,  no  doubt,  he 
will  make  a  lovely  white  rose.  I  sha'n't  cut  much  of  a 
figure,  I  am  afraid,  but  shall  be  content  to  be  the  dull 
ground  on  which  you  are  woven. 

I  do  little  else  than  take  longish  walks  by  the  sea  or 
over  the  moors,  which  do  me  good  and  make  my  eyes 
feel  a  little  better  at  any  rate.  But  I  feel  that  I  am 
come  to  the  period  when  decay  begins  to  set  in,  and 
when  I  am  tired  of  looking  at  the  ruins  of  the  Abbey 
I  sit  among  my  own  and  pensively  contemplate  them. 
I  hope  a  flower  or  two  will  root  in  a  crevice  here  and 
there  for  you  to  make  a  nosegay  of  when  you  chance 
that  way.  .  .  . 

TO  MISS    SEDGWICK 

2  Radnor  Place,  Hyde  Park,  W., 
Aug.  1 8, 1887. 

Dear  Dora, — Many  thanks  for  so  kindly  remembering 
me.  But  how  clever  women  are  in  flattering  us  with 
their  pretended  jealousies !  No,  there  may  be  another 
Dora,  but  the  first  will  always  have  that  pre-eminence 
of  priority  that  belongs  to  the  first  snowdrop  and  the 
first  bluebird.  You  are  Dora  I.,  D.  G. 


342  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1887 

In  spite  of  the  epigraph  of  my  paper  I  am  really  at 
Whitby,  whither  I  have  been  every  summer  but  '85  for 
the  last  six  years.  This  will  tell  you  how  much  I  like  it. 
A  very  primitive  place  it  is,  and  the  manners  and  ways 
of  its  people  much  like  those  of  New  England.  "  Sir  " 
and  "  ma'am  "  are  only  half-hardy  exotics  here.  The 
great  difference  is  that  everybody  here  will  take  a  shil 
ling,  failing  that,  a  sixpence,  and,  in  desperate  circum 
stances,  even  a  penny,  as  a  kind  of  tabula  in  naufragio, 
God  save  the  mark !  The  people  with  whom  I  lodge, 
but  for  accent,  might  be  of  Ashfield.  'Tis  a  wonder 
fully  picturesque  place,  with  the  bleaching  bones  of  its 
Abbey  standing  aloof  on  the  bluff  and  dominating  the 
country  for  leagues.  Once,  they  say,  the  monks  were 
lords  as  far  as  they  could  see.  The  skeleton  of  the  Abbey 
still  lords  it  over  the  landscape,  which  was  certainly  one 
of  the  richest  possessions  they  had,  for  there  never  was 
finer.  Sea  and  moor,  hill  and  dale ;  sea  dotted  with 
purple  sails  and  white  (fancy  mixes  a  little  in  the  pur 
ple,  perhaps),  moors  flushed  with  heather  in  blossom, 
and  fields  yellow  with  corn,  and  the  dark  heaps  of 
trees  in  every  valley  blabbing  the  secret  of  the  stream 
that  fain  would  hide  to  escape  being  the  drudge  of 
man.  I  know  not  why,  wind  has  replaced  water  for 
grinding,  and  the  huge  water-wheels,  green  with  moss 
and  motionless,  give  one  a  sense  of  repose  after  toil 
that,  to  a  lazy  man  like  me,  is  full  of  comfort.  Not 
that  I  am  so  lazy  neither,  for  I  think  a  good  deal — 
only  my  thoughts  never  seem  worth  writing  down  till  I 
meet  with  them  afterwards  written  down  by  somebody 
more  judiciously  frugal  than  I.  Do  you  know  I  was 


1887]  TO    MISS   SEDGWICK  343 

thinking  this  morning  that  Montaigne  was  the  only 
original  man  of  modern  times,  or  at  any  rate  the  only 
man  with  wit  enough  to  see  things  over  again  in  his 
own  way,  and  to  think  it  as  good  a  way  as  any  other, 
never  mind  how  old  ? 

I  wish  you  could  see  the  " yards" — steep  flights  of 
stone  steps  hurrying  down  from  the  West  Cliff  and  the 
East,  between  which  the  river  (whose  name  I  can  never 
remember)  crawls  into  the  sea,  and  where  I  meet  little 
girls  with  trays  bearing  the  family  pies  to  the  baker,  and 
groups  of  rosy  children  making  all  manner  of  playthings 
of  a  bone  or  a  rag.  And  I  wish  you  could  see  the  pier, 
with  its  throng  of  long-booted  fishermen,  looking  the 
worthy  descendants  of  the  Northmen  who  first  rowed 
their  ships  into  the  shelter  of  the  cliffs  and  named  the 
place.  And  I  wish  you  could  breathe  the  ample  air  of 
the  moors — I  mean  with  me. 

Your  little  gift,  dear  Dora,  has  been  very  useful.  I 
carry  it  in  my  pocket,  not  without  fear  of  wearing  away 
the  birds  and  flowers,  and  so  changing  its  summer  to 
autumn,  as  my  own  has  changed.  I  use  it  almost  every 
day.  I  dare  say  you  are  in  Ashfield  now.  Greet  the 
hills  for  me,  especially  Peter's,  and  the  June  grass  that 
I  still  see  making  them  so  beautiful  in  velvet.  Give 
my  love  to  all  wherever  you  are,  and  tell  Sally  that  I 
shall  write  to  her  soon.  I  take  my  letters  in  order,  and 
yours  came  before  hers ;  and  oh,  if  I  am  tardy,  remem 
ber  how  many  I  have  to  write  and  that  my  life  is  event 
less. 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


344  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1888 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Deerfoot,  Dec.  22,  1887. 

...  I  have  contrived  at  last  to  make  a  kind  of  whole 
of  "  Endymion,"  which  had  been  lying  in  fragments  for 
many  years,  but  fear  I  have  not  made  a  harmonious 
statue  of  it  after  all. 

I  have  finished  the  "Epistle  to  Curtis"  after  a  fashion, 
well  or  ill  is  hard  to  say.  The  measure  is  so  facile  that 
one  soon  loses  one's  sense  of  the  difference  between 
what  sounds  like  something  and  what  really  is  some 
thing.  One  needs  to  brace  one's  self  with  a  strong  dose 
of  Dr.  Donne.  .  .  . 

TO   R.  W.  GILDER 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Dec.  26,  1887. 

.  .  .  My  dear  boy,  if  ever  you  should  attain  to  entire 
utterance  of  yourself  you  would  be  the  unhappiest  man 
alive.  Be  happy  in  having  something  to  strive  after. 
Possession  (unless  of  the  Devil)  is  nine  points  of  the 
law,  but  it  is  ten  of  disillusion.  A  happy  New  Year  to 
you  both !  I  am  glad  you  have  been  seeing  the  Presi 
dent.*  To  me  his  personality  is  very  simpatico.  He  is 
a  truly  American  type  of  the  best  kind — a  type  very 
dear  to  me,  I  confess.  .  .  . 

TO  C.  E.  NORTON 

Deerfoot,  Jan.  5,  1888. 
...  I  brought  up  one  volume  of  Singer's  "  Old  Eng- 

*  Mr.  Cleveland. 


1888]  TO    C.  E.  NORTON  345 

lish  Poets,"  but  'twas  that  containing  the  "  Hero  and 
Leander"  of  Marlow  and  Chapman,  an  old  dear  of 
mine.  "  Thealma  and  Clearchus  "  I  left  behind  because 
I  didn't  want  it — nor  do  I  now.  The  weight  of  its  dul- 
ness  left  a  crease  in  my  memory  which  will  never  out 
any  more  than  that  of  a  dog's-ear  in  a  book.  But  be 
sides  this,  a  conviction  remains  from  that  laborious  read 
ing  (what  a  reader  I  was !  I  am  far  fallen  from  such 
grace  now)  that  the  book  could  not  have  been  written 
by  a  contemporary  of  Spenser,  as  Walton  said  it  was. 
The  language  was  altogether  too  modern — curiously  so 
even  for  1683,  when,  as  I  find,  Walton  published  it. 
And  this  singularity  (of  modernness)  is  very  notable  in 
the  style  of  the  "  Complete  Angler  "  too.  I  have  little 
doubt  that  Walton  himself  wrote  "  Thealma  and  Clear 
chus,"  though  I  can  well  fancy  a  coroner  writing  it,  or 
sitting  on  it  and  bringing  in  a  verdict  of  "  Found  Dead." 
That  Walton  should  have  laid  it  at  the  door  of  his  (con 
nubial)  great-uncle  is,  after  all,  a  comparatively  innocent 
supercherie.  If  Walton  wrote  only  the  verses  in  praise 
of  angling  printed  in  the  "  Complete  Angler,"  how  ex 
plain  Donne's  verses  to  him — unless  on  the  supposition 
that  the  opinions  of  one's  friends  about  one's  verses  are 
ninety-nine  parts  friendship  to  one  of  judgment?  I, 
who  am  just  printing  mine,  am  upset  by  the  thought. 
Or  was  there  another  I.  W.  ?  I  know  of  none. 

I  am  wondering  more  and  more  if  my  poems  are 
good  for  anything  after  all.  They  are  old-fashioned  in 
their  simplicity  and  straightforwardness  of  style — and 
everybody  writes  so  plaguily  well  nowadays.  I  fear 
that  I  left  off  my  diet  of  bee-bread  too  long  and  have 


346  LETTERS    OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1888 

written  too  much  prose.  A  poet  shouldn't  be,  nay,  he 
can't  be,  anything  else  without  loss  to  him  as  poet,  how 
ever  much  he  may  gain  as  man. 

But  this  is  getting  as  long  as  the  Epistle  to  the  Co 
rinthians  (which  had  to  be  cut  in  two),  and  is  not  near 
as  entertaining.  But  I  always  write  my  longest  letters 
when  I  have  something  else  to  do.  It  seems  so  like 
being  industrious.  'Tis  a  temptation  of  the  Devil.  .  .  . 


TO   R.  W.  GILDER 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Jan.  16,  1888. 

...  If  the  Landor  article  be  not  yet  printed  I  should 
like  to  make  a  correction  therein.  When  I  wrote  it  I 
sought  in  vain  for  a  note  I  had  made  (when  my  mem 
ory  was  fresh)  of  what  he  said  to  me  about  "  Old 
Daddy  Wordsworth,"  as  Thackeray  used  irreverently 
to  call  him.*  I  have  now  lighted  on  it,  and  this  it  is : 

"  Mr.  Wordsworth,  a  man  may  mix  poetry  with  prose 
as  much  as  he  pleases,  and  it  will  only  elevate  and  en 
liven  ;  but  the  moment  he  mixes  a  particle  of  prose 
with  his  poetry  it  precipitates  the  whole."  If  my  ver 
sion  in  the  Century  differs  materially  from  this,  I 
should  be  glad  to  have  this  take  its  place,  for  I  don't 
like  a  lie  even  in  the  milder  form  of  inaccuracy.  If  I 
have  got  it  nearly  right  in  the  Century  I  shall  be  glad, 
because  it  will  partly  persuade  me  that  my  memory  is 
not  so  ruinous  as  I  supposed.  .  .  . 


*  "  Old  Daddy  Wordsworth,"  said  Thackeray,  "  may  bless  his 
stars  if  he  ever  get  high  enough  in  heaven  to  black  Tommy 
Moore's  boots." 


I888J  TO   THE   MISSES   LAWRENCE  347 

TO   THE   MISSES   LAWRENCE 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Jan.  30,  1888. 

...  I  am  very  busy  in  my  old  age,  if  I  may  call  my 
seventieth  year  so  (on  which  I  enter  in  twenty-three 
days),  when  I  feel  as  young  as  I  ever  did.  I  have  been 
printing  a  new  collection  of  my  old  poems,  some  of 
them  already  published  in  magazines  (to  help  boil  the 
pot  for  the  day),  and  some  out  of  yellowing  portfolios. 
I  shall  send  you  a  copy  in  due  time,  and  you  must  toss 
up  which  shall  read  it  first  —  for  I  assume  a  natural 
eagerness  in  both  of  you.  Then  I  am  revising  my 
"  Works  "  for  a  uniform  edition  in  type  so  clear  that  I 
shall  be  able  to  read  them  myself  should  I  ever  have 
the  wish.  I  have  already  read  over  one  volume  of  my 
prose,  and  am  astonished  to  find  how  clever  I  used  to 
be.  I  give  you  my  word  for  it,  I  was  entertained  by 
the  reading. 

We  have  been  having  the  coldest  weather  for  many 
years — cold  and  clear  as  a  critique  of  Matt  Arnold's. 
Night  before  last  our  thermometer  (a  very  serious  one 
and  not  given  to  exaggerations)  marked  forty-six  de 
grees  of  frost  on  the  honor  of  Fahrenheit.  I  like  it, 
and  if  you  could  see  the  long  stretch  of  snowy  peace 
(with  no  track  of  the  interviewer's  hoof  in  it)  I  look  at 
from  my  windows,  you  would  think  that  Winter  had 
his  compensations.  When  you  do  have  snow  in  Lon 
don,  it  has  lost  its  innocence  and  looks  as  if  it  had 
come  out  of  the  slums.  . 


348  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1888 

TO    MRS.  LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Feb.  20,  1888. 

.  .  .  This  is  the  first  time  you  ever  said  anything  to 
me  that  made  me  uncomfortable.  But  when  you  tell 
me  that  my  lovely  little  goddaughter  has  been  sup 
plied  with  an  autograph -book,  an  instrument  of  tor 
ture  unknown  even  to  the  Inquisition,  you  make  me 
shiver.  Albums  they  used  to  be  called  and,  after  ex 
hausting  the  patience  of  mankind,  hope  to  continue 
their  abominable  work  under  an  alias. 

Stammbiicher  the  Germans  call  them  (who,  cunning 
in  the  invention  of  bores,  invented  this  also),  and  I 
rather  like  the  name,  because  stamm  has  an  imprecatory 
sound  and  rhymes  honestly  with  the  d — n  that  rises 
to  one's  lips  when  one  sees  a  specimen.  However,  I 
will  write  in  Virginia's,  that  she  may  have  the  pleasure 
of  wondering  one  of  these  days  how  her  mother  ever 
could  have  loved  so  dull  a  fellow.  . 


TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Deerfoot  Farm,  Feb.  21,  1888. 

...  I  haven't  had  much  of  a  week.  My  wits  are 
sluggish  as  cold  molasses.  I  have  to  wait  for  a  thaw 
like  my  neighbor  the  brook  here,  who  is  in  fine  vein 
this  morning,  as  contemptuous  of  dams  as  a  Universal- 
ist.  I  never  could  get  any  good  by  Johnson's  recipe  of 
"setting  doggedly  about  it."  Perhaps  I  don't  take  a 
strong  enough  dose.  .  .  . 


1888]  TO   C.  E.  NORTON  349 

TO   THE   SAME 

Deerfoot  Farm,  March  11,  1888. 

...  I  have  been  having  a  very  blue  week — unable 
to  do  anything  that  I  ought  to  be  doing,  and  of  no 
earthly  use  (of  heavenly  there  is  no  question)  in  the 
world.  .  .  .  But  yesterday  I  received  a  certain  amount 
of  self-satisfaction  in  a  foolish  way.  I  had  been  read 
ing  about  Alcott,  and  was  reminded  that  forty  years 
ago  I  wrote  something  about  him  myself.  I  read  it, 
and  found  that,  though  I  could  now  amend  it  here  and 
there,  I  had  said  gayly  pretty  much  what  people  are 
saying  seriously  now,  and  this  pleased  me.  Therefore 
I  write  to  you  as  my  literary  executor,  to  say  the  sec 
ond  of  "  Studies  for  Two  Heads"  was  a  sketch  from  the 
living  Alcott.  It  must  have  been  written  before  1850. 
Read  it  and  see  how  you  like  it.  Lord,  how  easily  I 
used  to  write ! — too  easily,  I  think  now.  But  I  couldn't 
help  it.  Everything  came  at  a  jump  and  all  of  a  piece. 
In  reading  this  over  again,  I  doubt  if  my  pencil  hesi 
tated  once  in  writing  it  or  made  a  correction  afterwards. 
Perhaps  this  is  why  I  never  value  what  I  have  done 
till  long  enough  after  to  have  forgotten  it  (as  in  this 
case),  and  then  sometimes,  but  not  often,  I  am  goose 
enough  to  be  pleased  ! 

.  .  .  Heigh-ho !  everything  is  beginning  to  seem  long 
ago  to  me  now  and  everything  grows  dreamy — but  I 
shall  wake  now  before  long.  I  think  it  is  partly  that  I 
can't  realize  myself  here  in  Southborough.  I  don't  get 
wonted.  I  walk  to  the  post-office  or  over  the  hills, 
and  though  I  have  every  evidence  that  earth  is  solid 


350  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1888 

under  my  feet,  yet  it  crumbles  away  at  eveiy  step  and 
leaves  me  in  dreamland.  Is  there  anything  solid  out 
side  the  mind  ?  Or  is  one  a  little  cracked  now  and 
then  ?  Sometimes  in  my  lonely  lunes  I  fancy  it,  and 
then  Fact  gives  me  a  smart  rap  on  the  head  and  it 
rings  clear  again.  .  .  . 


TO   T.  B.  ALDRICH 

Deerfoot  Farm,  March  19,  1888. 

...  I  liked  your  little  poem  about  Brownell  both  for 
its  own  sake  and  for  being  what  Lessing  used  to  call  a 
Rescue.  But  this  is  not  my  reason  for  writing.  What 
I  meant  to  tell  you  about  was  one  of  those  coinci 
dences  of  which  so  much  is  made  nowadays.  Yester 
day  morning  I  found  myself  all  of  a  sudden  thinking 
of  Brownell  (though  I  couldn't  for  my  life  remember 
his  name)  and  of  those  fine  Norse-hearted  poems  of  his. 
I  fell  into  the  same  line  of  thought  with  you  in  your 
poem — though  mine  didn't  achieve  such  gracious  curves 
as  yours.  Now,  I  can't  recollect  that  I  had  thought  of 
Brownell  for  years,  nor  could  I  excogitate  any  sugges 
tion,  by  association  or  otherwise,  that  should  make  me 
think  of  him  then.  I  was  on  my  way  to  take  down  a 
volume  of  Dyce's  "  Middleton  "  from  the  shelf  when  he 
(anonymously,  too,  as  I  have  said)  dropt  in.  So  sud 
den  and  unforewarned  was  it  that  I  thought  it  very 
odd  at  the  time  and  tried  in  vain  to  account  for  it. 
The  man  himself  came  back  to  me  vividly  as  I  saw  him 
some  twenty  years  ago  at  our  Saturday  Club.  He  had 
a  single  touch  of  vulgarity  about  him — he  dyed  his  hair 


TO   C.  E.  NORTON  351 

(or  beard,  I  forget  which — perhaps  both).  But  he  was 
so  modest  that  one  soon  forgot  it  as  one  does  a  uni 
form,  though  a  little  disconcerting  at  first.  So  I  said 
to  him,  "  I  remember  your  face  perfectly  well,  but  can't 
recall  your  name,  and  I  remember,  too,  how  your  great 
guns  used  to  jump — wasn't  that  the  word?" 

Well,  in  the  evening  came  your  poem  and  gave  me 
the  label  for  my  poet.  I  really  think  it  was  rather  odd. 
'Twas  better  to  remember  his  poems,  though,  than  his 
name,  wasn't  it  ?  But  don't  you  go  to  rescuing  any 
body  else,  for  I  might  not  again  verify  the  proverb 
that  les  beaux  esprits  se  rencontrent,  and  my  story  of 
how  far  off  your  coming  shone  would  be  spoiled.  .  .  . 

TO    C.  E.  NORTON 

Deerfoot  Farm,  March  27,  1888. 

...  I  haven't  had  a  very  blessed  week.  If  I  could 
manage  the  gymnastic  feat  of  jumping  off  my  own 
shadow,  I  should  do  well  enough.  But  it  is  difficult. 
And  yet  I  fancy  that  they  who  accomplish  it  are  the 
only  ones  who  have  a  chance  at  being  happy  or  reason 
ably  successful.  I  am  such  an  ill-conditioned  mixture 
of  folly  and  common-sense  as  makes  me  despair  some 
times.  My  Folly  whispers  me,  "  Now  do  something 
really  good,  as  good  as  you  know  how,"  and  so  I  do 
something,  and  it  isn't  so  good  as  I  know  how.  Then 
comes  Common-sense  and  says,  "  Why  in  the  dumps  ? 
It  makes  no  odds  in  the  end."  Very  true,  but  the  end 
may  be  a  good  way  off,  and  meanwhile  ?  .  .  . 

Well,  I  shall   hope  to  see  you  on  Saturday,  and  I 


35 2  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL.  LOWELL  [1888 

hope  the  weight  will  be  lifted  for  a  while.  But  I  am 
to  speak  in  New  York,  and  that  depresses  me.  What 
can  I  say  that  I  and  everybody  else  hasn't  said  fifty 
times  before  ?  And  then  my  way  of  saying  things 
doesn't  answer  for  the  Philistines,  and  they  are  the  im 
portant  people  after  all.  .  .  . 

TO   THE   SAME 

Deerfoot,  March  29,  1888. 

...  I  was  a  little  consoled  yesterday  by  getting  a 

letter  from  ,  which  she  had  sagaciously  addressed 

to  "  Scarborough,  Maine,"  on  the  cover  of  which  the 
postmaster  of  that  ilk  had  written,  "  No  such  party 

known  here."  How  ever  found  out  there  was 

such  a  place  and  where  it  was  I  can't  imagine,  but  al 
though  the  P.  M.  did  call  me  a  "  party,"  there  was  a 
kind  of  comfort  in  thinking  of  a  place  where  I  had 
never  been  heard  of.  I  am  thinking  of  migrating 
thither  and  beginning  life  anew  as  an  honest  burgher 
whose  soul  has  never  ventured  into  a  region  above 
buttons. 

But  by  Jove  !  there's  a  bluebird  warbling,  God  bless 
him  !  Tis  the  best  news  this  many  a  day.  .  .  . 

TO    THE    SAME 

Deerfoot,  March  30,  1888. 

...  I  was  seeing  things  all  night  long ;  they  were  all 
beautiful  and  bright.  One  night  I  saw  Michael  with 
his  scales,  and  made  a  poem  of  it  next  morning  which 
rescued  me  from  a  prose  article  I  was  trying  to  write 


TO    MRS.   EDWARD    BURNETT  353 

for  a  young  fellow  in  Chicago.  I  sent  him  the  verses 
(which  cost  me  but  half  an  hour)  instead.  You  will 
see  and  like  'em  too,  I  hope. 

I  am  persuaded  that  the  D — 1  has  been  abroad  in 
great  wrath,  but  not  because  his  time  is  short  unhap 
pily.  I  am  thankful  for  the  immense  ballast  of  com 
mon-sense  I  carry.  It  sinks  me  too  deep  in  the  water 
sometimes  for  my  keel  to  plough  air  as  a  poet's  should, 
but  it  keeps  my  top-hamper  steady  when  the  wind 
blows  as  it  has  lately. 

"  Timon  "  wasn't  a  bad  medicine.  The  text  is  one  of 
the  worst  among  all  the  plays.  'Tis  wrapt  in  smoke, 
but  with  awful  gushes  of  flame  now  and  then  as  from 
a  world  on  fire.  , 


TO   MRS.  EDWARD   BURNETT 

2  Radnor  Place,  Hyde  Park,  W., 
May  13,  1888. 

.  .  .  London  has  been  very  pleasant  this  week — I 
mean  the  weather ;  not  a  raindrop  since  my  last  letter. 
And  I  find  a  childish  pleasure  in  the  vision  of  splen 
dor  it  offers  me.  I  like  the  difficulty  I  find  in  crossing 
the  drive-way  in  Hyde  Park  for  the  throng  of  equi 
pages.  I  like  to  see  so  many  people  capable  of  luxuries 
that  are  beyond  my  reach.  I  wonder  whether  I  should 
like  it  as  well  if  I  couldn't  afford  to  hire  a  hansom  ?  I 
half  think  I  should.  It  is  very  odd  to  be  snatched 
from  my  cell  at  Deerfoot  and  caught  up  by  this  whirl 
of  breakfasts,  luncheons,  teas,  dinners,  and  "  goings-on." 
I  am  sure  I  like  Deerfoot  best,  and  can't  quite  make 
IL-23 


354  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1888 

it  clear  to  myself  why  I  am  here.     Yet  you  would  be 
pleased  with  the  warmth  of  my  welcome.  .  .  . 

It  is  so  fine  to-day  that  I  can't  help  wishing  I  were 
in  Kensington  Gardens,  where  the  new  leafage  bright 
ens  into  blossoms  against  the  smoke-blackened  trunks, 
and  the  thrushes  are  singing  as  if  they  would  never  be 
old.  It  is  odd  to  see  the  battered  old  trees  there  come 
out  in  their  new  spring  fashions  like  dowagers  who 
dress  young.  I  shall  be  walking  across  presently.  .  .  . 

TO   THE   SAME 

2  Radnor  Place,  Hyde  Park,  W., 
June  24,  1888. 

.  .  .  You  know  that  my  correspondence  is  apt  to 
have  gaps  in  it,  like  a  saw  with  which  some  enterpris 
ing  boy  like  Francis  has  been  experimenting,  and  I  felt 
sure  that  you  would  explain  this  last  one  by  my  jour 
ney  to  Bologna.*  That,  indeed,  was  the  immediate 
cause  of  it.  The  heat  was  of  the  best  quality,  and  I 
felt  a  good  part  of  the  time  as  I  suppose  a  dissolving 
view  must  when  it  is  fulfilling  its  destiny.  But  the 
consequence  of  that  and  of  the  fatigues  I  underwent 
was  in  long  last  a  fit  of  gout  from  which  I  am  just  re 
covering.  Luckily  for  me  it  came  to  a  head  gradu 
ally,  and  I  was  able  (with  the  kind  aid  of  my  fellow- 
travellers  Professors  Ramsay  and  Ferguson,  of  Glasgow) 
to  make  the  journey  of  thirty-one  hours  without  break 
from  Milan  to  London.  I  look  back  upon  it  now  with 

*  To  be  present  as  a  delegate  from  Harvard,  at  the  celebra 
tion  of  the  eighth  hundredth  anniversary  of  the  University  of 
Bologna. 


1888]  TO   MRS.   EDWARD    BURNETT  355 

amazement  when  I  think  that  I  am  on  the  edge  of  sev 
enty.  Had  I  stopped  on  the  way  I  should  be  there 
now,  for  I  have  been  flat  on  my  back  since  I  arrived 
here  eight  days  ago.  .  .  . 


TO   THE   SAME 

2  Radnor  Place,  Hyde  Park,  W., 

July  8,  1888. 

.  .  .  The  gout  hardly  tolerates  any  distraction  on 
the  part  of  those  it  visits,  and  the  material  for  a  letter 
accumulates  slowly.  I  hold  my  cup  patiently  under 
the  faucet,  I  shake  the  cask,  and  it  is  odds  if  a  drag 
gling  drop  fall  now  and  then.  I  don't  think  that  one's 
meditations  on  the  Universe  are  exactly  the  material 
for  a  letter  or  likely  to  prove  so  entertaining,  not  to 
say  profitable,  as  Swift's  on  a  broomstick.  The  out 
ward  world  may  be  an  illusion  of  the  senses — one  is 
often  tempted  to  think  it  such ;  but  solitary  confine 
ment  without  even  so  much  as  Bruce's  spider,  or  Sil 
vio  Pellico's  mouse,  soon  teaches  one  how  dependent 
on  it  we  are  for  mental  enlivenment.  The  silk-worm 
and  the  spider  are  the  only  creatures  which  can  spin 
their  own  insides  to  advantage ;  and  the  former  is  noth 
ing  to  the  purpose,  since  he  spins  'em  only  to  exclude 
himself  from  the  world,  while  the  latter  can  profit  by 
his  gift  of  nature  only  when  he  finds  coignes  of  van 
tage  on  which  to  hitch  the  web  that  is  to  catch  his 
flies  for  him.  This  was  Montaigne's  method,  and  the 
connection  of  his  essays  is  never  logical,  but  is  dictated 
by  the  accidental  prominence  of  corners  of  his  mem- 


356  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1888 

ory  to  which  he  can  attach  the  thread  of  his  discourse. 
But  an  essay  is  not  a  letter,  as  you  have  discovered 
by  this  time.  The  meaning  of  all  this  is  that  my  life 
has  been  wholly  without  incident  for  the  last  three 
weeks.  To-day  is  marked  by  an  event  of  grave  im 
portance.  I  have  had  my  boots  on  and  mock  at  my 
crutch.  .  .  . 

TO   MISS   E.  G.  NORTON 

2  Radnor  Place,  Hyde  Park,  W., 
July  12,  1888. 

.  .  .  Your  letter  was  even  more  welcome  than  you 
could  have  expected,  for  it  brought  a  vision  of  your 
gracious  presence  to  me  while  I  was  prostrate  with 
gout  and  specially  in  need  of  such  consolations.  It 
was  very  nice  of  you  to  think  of  me  and  to  show  me 
that  you  did  in  such  a  charming  way.  .  .  . 

I  occupied  my  enforced  leisure  in  reading  the  come 
dies  of  Eugene  Labiche,  which  greatly  amused  me. 
Since  I  have  been  getting  better  I  have  read  the  lives 
of  Archbishop  Trench  and  of  W.  E.  Forster.  I  knew 
them  both,  and  the  books  interested  me  accordingly, 
especially  the  latter.  It  is  pleasant  to  read  about  men 
whom  one  can  respect  so  much,  however  one  may  dis 
sent  from  some  of  their  opinions.  .  .  . 

TO   LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Whitby,  Aug.  22,  1888. 

...  I  like  Whitby  as  well  as  ever,  weather  or  no, 
but  find  it  harder  than  ever  to  be  jolly.  I  feel  that  I 


1888]  TO   MRS.  LESLIE   STEPHEN  357 

am  going  down-stairs  at  last,  and  am  not  even  con 
soled  by  the  esprit  d'escalier.  But  I  have  found  the 
drawing-room  pleasant,  on  the  whole,  and  liked  the 
people  there.  .  .  . 

TO   MRS.  LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Whitby,  Aug.  23,  1888. 

.  .  .  I  am  rather  lame  to-day  because  I  walked  too 
much  and  over  very  rough  paths  yesterday.  But  how 
could  I  help  it  ?  For  I  will  not  give  in  to  Old  Age.  We 
started,  a  dozen  of  us,  at  half-past  ten,  as  agreed  on  the 
day  before.  The  clouds  were  heaping  ominously  in  the 
N.W.,  and  soon  it  began  to  rain  in  a  haphazard  kind 
of  way,  as  a  musician  who  lodges  over  one  lets  his  fin 
gers  idle  among  the  keys  before  he  settles  down  to  the 
serious  business  of  torture.  So  it  went  on  drowsily,  but 
with  telling  effects  of  damp,  till  we  reached  Falling 
Foss,  which  we  saw  as  a  sketch  in  water-colors  and 
which  was  very  pretty.  We  had  left  our  wagonette  at 
Little  Neck,  where  we  were  to  lunch,  and  walked  thither 
to  meet  it  by  a  foot-path  along  the  valley  of  the  stream. 
This  was  a  very  up-and-down  business,  and  especially 
slippery  from  clayeyness  of  soil,  especially  to  me  who 
had  on  tennis  shoes  for  the  ease  of  my  feet,  the  india- 
rubber  soles  of  which  lent  themselves  gladly  to  all  the 
sliding  passages  of  the  performance.  I  was  unable  to 
maintain  that  sedateness  of  gait  which  Dante  com 
mends  as  essential  to  dignity,  but  escaped  without  a 
tumble  by  dint  of  much  impromptu  gymnastics. 

Thunder-storms  loitered  about  over  the  valley,  like 
'Arries  on  a  bank  holiday,  at  a  loss  what  to  do  with 


LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1888 

their  leisure,  but  ducking  us  now  and  then  by  way  of 
showing  their  good -humor.  However,  there  were  pa 
rentheses  of  sunshine,  and,  on  the  whole,  it  was  very 
beautiful.  After  lunch,  being  assured  that  the  foot 
path  (two  miles  and  a  half  in  the  Yorkshire  dialect)  from 
Little  Neck  to  Sleeghts  was  much  easier,  I  resolved 
to  attempt  it.  It  turned  out  harder  than  we  expected, 
owing  to  slipperiness,  and  we  had  to  cross  the  swollen 
stream  three  times,  leaping  from  unsteady  stone  to  stone 
as  we  could.  Episodes  of  thunder-storm  as  before  all 
the  way.  We  got  in  at  last ;  I  with  my  feet  giving  me 
twinges  like  toothache  at  every  step.  The  sun  came 
out  and  the  hills  were  glorious  all  about  us  for  the  last 
half -hour  of  walking.  If  you  could  have  seen  the 
golden  heaven  that  deepened  in  the  little  mill-pond 
just  before  we  arrived  at  Sleeghts !  'Twas  like  the 
heart  of  a  poet,  no  bigger  than  another's,  but  capable 
of  holding  so  much!  I  don't  regret  my  walk. 

It  is  sunny  and  soft  to-day,  and  I  shall  crawl  out  to 
bask  a  little,  like  the  other  pensioners  of  nature.  It 
will  not  be  long  now  ere  I  head  for  St.  Ives.  .  .  . 

P.  S.  Pardon  this  letter.  As  I  think  back  over  it,  I 
fear  it  must  be  like  one  of  the  business  passages  of  the 
"  Excursion."  .  .  . 

TO   THE   SAME 

2  Radnor  Place,  London,  Sept.  29,  1888. 

...  I  have  not  been  seriously  at  work  on  anything, 

but  only  entangled  in  the  briery  intricacies  of  George 

Meredith,  like  the  poet  of  the  "Romaunt  of  the  Rose," 

and  like  him  consoling  my  scratches  with  the  assurance 


1388]  TO   MISS   SEDGWICK  359 

that  there  was  a  consummate  flower  hidden  somewhere 
among  them,  of  which  one  gets  enchanting  glimpses 
now  and  then.  I  am  now  reading  Mrs.  Green's  "  Henry 
II."  with  great  edification. 

But  I  am  dissolute  also.  Last  night  I  went  to  the 
Court  Theatre,  and  saw,  I  am  bound  to  say,  one  of  the 
stupidest  pieces  of  vulgarity  that  ever  pleased  a  British 
public.  Ah,  if  I  were  only  capable  of  judging  Eng 
lish  civilization  as  American  is  judged,  what  a  sermon 
mightn't  I  preach  !  But  I  forbear.  No,  I  won't  give  in. 
I  still  insist  that  Britain  produces  a  saint  now  and  then 
as  fair  as  if  they  had  stepped  down  from  an  old  painted 
window. 

We  have  been  having  snivelling  weather,  but  to-day 
is  sunshiny,  and  I  am  going  to  the  private  view  of  the 
"  Arts  and  Crafts  "  Society — a  hopeless  attempt,  in  my 
opinion,  to  reproduce  the  happy  inadvertence  of  medise- 
val  art  by  deliberate  forethought.  But  I  shall  be  glad 
to  see  the  Burne-Jones  windows.  .  .  . 

TO  MISS  SEDGWICK 

2  Radnor  Place,  Oct.  3, 1888. 

.  .  .  We  are  in  the  beginning  of  our  foggy  season,  and 
to-day  are  having  a  yellow  fog,  and  that  always  enlivens 
me,  it  has  such  a  knack  of  transfiguring  things.  It  flat 
ters  one's  self-esteem,  too,  in  a  recondite  way,  promoting 
one  for  the  moment  to  that  exclusive  class  which  can 
afford  to  wrap  itself  in  a  golden  seclusion.  It  is  very 
picturesque  also.  Even  the  cabs  are  rimmed  with  a 
halo,  and  people  across  the  way  have  all  that  possibility 


360  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1888 

of  suggestion  which  piques  the  fancy  so  in  the  figures 
of  fading  frescoes.  Even  the  gray,  even  the  black  fogs 
make  a  new  and  unexplored  world  not  unpleasing  to 
one  who  is  getting  palled  with  familiar  landscapes.  .  .  . 


TO   F.   H.  UNDERWOOD 

London,  Nov.  3,  1888. 

...  I  had  recollected  that  you  had  asked  me  if  I 
would  read  what  you  had  written  about  me,  and  could 
not  be  quite  sure  whether  you  had  asked  me  by  word 
of  mouth  or  by  letter.  You  know  my  shyness  about 
such  things,  so  I  shall  only  say  that  what  you  said  gave 
me  as  much  pleasure  as  at  my  age  one  is  able  to  take  in 
such  things.  One's  old  self  becomes  with  time  a  kind 
of  third  person,  in  whom  one  takes  a  certain  friendly 
interest,  with  no  incursion  of  that  partisanship  which  is 
apt  to  disturb  any  discussion  of  one's  actual  self  — 
though  less,  I  would  fain  think,  in  my  own  case  than  in 
most.  I  fancy  I  might  have  accomplished  more  if  I 
could  have  contrived  to  take  a  greater  interest  in  my 
self  and  my  doings.  Perhaps  not,  for  I  should  have 
been  more  conscious.  .  .  . 

TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

2  Radnor  Place,  Hyde  Park,  W., 
Nov.  n,  1888. 

...  It  is  noon,  and  I  am  writing  by  candle-light. 
If  I  look  over  the  way  I  can  just  see  the  houses 
vague  as  the  architecture  of  Piranesi.  But  I  like  fogs ; 
they  leave  the  imagination  so  wholly  to  herself,  or  just 


1888]  TO   C.  E.  NORTON  361 

giving  her  a  jog  now  and  then.  I  shall  go  out  into  the 
Park  by  and  by,  to  lose  myself  in  this  natural  poesy 
of  London  which  makes  the  familiar  strange.  It  is  as 
good  as  travelling  in  the  interior  of  Africa,  without  the 
odious  duty  of  discovery,  which  makes  the  strange  famil 
iar.  There  is  an  ominous  feel  about  it  to  which  I  never 
get  wonted,  as  of  the  last  day,  and  I  listen  with  a  shud 
der  sometimes  for  the  tuba  mirum  spargens  sonum.  I  am 
still  so  much  of  a  Puritan  that  the  English  words  would 

shock  me  a  little,  as  they  did  the  other  day  at 's 

table,  when  I  blurted  them  out  to  a  parson's  wife  in  my 
impulsive  way,  and  made  her  jump  as  if  she  had  heard 
the  authentic  instrument  with  her  accounts  but  half 
made  up. 

There  is  nothing  new  here — there  seldom  is,  and  this 
is  what  makes  it  so  comfortable.  The  Parnell  Commis 
sion,  like  a  wounded  snake,  drags  its  slow  length  along 
with  an  effect  of  bore  silently  and  sootily  pervasive  as 
the  fog  of  which  I  was  just  speaking.  Unless  some 
sudden  Chinese  cracker  of  revelation  intime  should  go 
off,  the  world  in  general  will  have  forgotten  it  ere  it  be 
over.  I  think  Gladstone  has  at  least  effected  so  much — 
that  he  has  brought  Irish  and  English  together  on  a 
common  ground.  Surely  this  is  good  so  far  as  it  goes, 
but  how  long  the  Irish  will  allow  any  ground  on  which 
they  get  a  footing  to  remain  common  is  to  me  at  least 
problematical.  I  for  one  am  getting  tired  of  seeing  our 
politics  playing  bob  to  their  kite. 

The  Sackville  squall  has  amused  me  a  good  deal, 
bringing  out  so  strangely  as  it  did  the  English  genius 
for  thinking  all  the  rest  of  mankind  unreasonable.  One 


362  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1888 

is  reminded  of  the  old  story  of  the  madman  who 
thought  himself  alone  in  his  sanity.  I  seldom  care  to 
discuss  anything — most  things  seem  so  obvious — least 
of  all  with  the  average  Briton,  who  never  is  willing  to 
take  anything  for  granted  and  whose  eyes  are  blind  to 
all  side-lights.  Yes,  there  is  one  thing  they  always  take 
for  granted,  namely,  that  an  American  must  see  the 
superiority  of  England.  They  have  as  little  tact  as 
their  totem  the  bull.  I  have  come  to  the  edge  of  my 
temper  several  times  over  the  Sackville  business  —  al 
ways  introduced  by  them.  "  All  Europe  is  laughing  at 

you,  you  know/'  said  Sir to  me  genially  the 

other  day.  "  That  is  a  matter  of  supreme  indifference 
to  us,"  I  replied  blandly,  though  with  a  keen  tempta 
tion  to  pull  a  pair  of  ears  so  obtrusively  long.  But  with 
all  that  there  is  a  manliness  about  them  I  heartily  like. 
Tact,  after  all,  is  only  a  sensitiveness  of  nerve,  and  there 
is  but  a  hair's-breadth  between  this  and  irritability.  .  .  . 

P.  S.  Fancy !  I  shall  have  reached  David's  limit  in 
three  months. 

TO   MRS.  EDWARD   BURNETT 

2  Radnor  Place,  Hyde  Park,  W., 
Nov.  12,  1888. 

.  .  .  Alas !  in  this  world  we  do  not  cast  off  our  hair 
shirts.  At  best  we  turn  them  or  put  on  clean  ones  that 
haven't  lost  their  bite  by  wear.  ...  If  one  is  good  for 
anything,  the  world  is  not  a  place  to  be  happy  in — 
though,  thank  God,  there  are  better  things  than  being 
happy.  .  .  . 


1889]         TO  MRS.  JAMES  T.  FIELDS  AND  MRS.  E.  BURNETT  363 

TO   MRS.  JAMES  T.  FIELDS 

68  Beacon  Street,  Jan.  21,  1889. 

...  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  offer  me  books,  and  I 
thank  you  heartily.  But  alas !  it  is  not  books — it  is  I 
that  am  wanting.  I  read  as  a  swallow  peruses  the  pool, 
with  briefest  dips  at  the  surface.  I  suppose  I  shall 
feel  the  wind  in  my  sails  before  long.  At  present  I 
am  becalmed.  In  some  corner  of  the  sky  there  must 
be  a  breeze  waiting.  Or  am  I  (as  some  teach)  a  ma 
chine  ?  and  has  a  grain  of  sand  blown  in  somewhere  ? 
Never  mind,  I  am  much  obliged  to  you.  .  .  . 

TO   MRS.  EDWARD  BURNETT 

1608  K  Street,  Washington,  Feb.  13,  1889. 

.  .  ,  Philadelphia  was  very  dinnery,  of  course,  with 
lunches  and  Wister  parties  thrown  in.  Nothing  could 
have  been  more  agreeable  than  my  host  and  hostess 
the  Weir  Mitchells,  and  everybody  was  kind.  .  .  . 

Here  I  am  busy  dining  and  receptioning  again,  but 
not  now  for  the  first  time  do  I  find  that  I  am  not  the 
stuff  of  which  lions  are  made.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  on  a 
false  mane  which  might  blow  off  at  the  first  gust.  Like 
Bottom  "  I  no  lion  am,  nor  yet  no  lion's  dam."  But 
the  shaking  up  I  get  does  me  good. 

Yesterday  afternoon  Ned*  and  his  chum  gave  me 
a  tea  which  was  very  pleasant,  and  which  Mrs.  Cleve 
land  honored  with  her  presence.  She  is  very  pretty 
and  gracious  and  bears  herself  very  well. 

*  Mr.  Burnett,  who  was  at  this  time  a  Member  of  Congress. 


364  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1889 

I  met  the  President  and  her  at  dinner  with  the 
Endicotts.  He  was  very  cordial,  and  there  is  a  look  of 
sentiment  in  his  eyes  in  odd  contrast  with  the  burli 
ness  of  his  person.  It  is  odd  to  be  in  a  capital  again 
and  to  renew  the  familiar  round  of  official  receptions 
with  unfamiliar  faces  and  ways.  I  have  been  struck 
with  the  fine  figures  and  heads  of  the  senators.  They 
are  really  imposing,  and  seem  to  have  been  sifted  out 
by  a  kind  of  natural  selection.  This  morning,  after  a 
call  on  Mr.  Bayard  at  the  State  Department,  I  called 
on  Mrs.  Cleveland  at  the  White  House.  She  was  again 
very  pleasing  in  a  very  pretty  morning-gown.  .  .  . 


TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

1608  K  Street,  Washington,  Feb.  15,  1889. 

...  I  fear  I  never  had  that  lively  interest  in  folks 
that  becomes  a  wise  man — I  mean  folks  in  general.  I 
somehow  get  to  the  end  of  them  so  soon  that  they  be 
gin  to  bore  me  sooner  than  they  should. 

I  have  seen  some  interesting  people,  nevertheless, 
and  have  been  lucky  in  my  hosts  (the  Mitchells  and 
S.  G.  W.),  who  are  always  good  company  and  hold 
out,  having  native  springs  in  them,  and  not  being 
merely  taps  of  the  general  system  of  milk-and-water 
works.  Ward  is  wonderfully  young  and  like  his  for 
mer  self.  Hanging  before  me  as  I  write  are  two  land 
scapes  of  his  in  pastel,  as  good  in  their  way  as  anything 
of  the  kind  I  ever  saw,  and  his  interest  in  good  things 
is  as  lively  as  ever.  Mrs.  Ward,  too,  is  little  changed 
since  I  last  saw  her,  and  together  they  give  me  a  queer 


1889]  TO    MRS.  JAMES   T.   FIELDS  365 

feeling  that  I  have  come  back  to  a  place  where  we 
called  a  halt  twenty  years  ago,  and  that  in  retracing 
my  steps  I  have  abolished  the  years  between. 

I  have  seen  Bancroft  twice  and  found  him  as  vivid 
as  ever.  In  answer  to  a  question  of  mine  he  told  me 
the  odd  fact  that  he  learned  German  of  Sidney  Wil- 
lard,  who  knew  the  language  well,  but  must  have  been 
his  own  teacher,  for  he  knew  nothing  of  the  pronun 
ciation,  so  that  Bancroft,  when  he  arrived  in  Germany, 
had  only  to  learn  that  in  order  to  speak  easily. 

I  have  made  also  a  very  pleasant  acquaintance  in 
Mr.  McCulloch,  who  called  on  me,  a  dear  old  man  of 
eighty-five,  rosy  and  fresh  and  gentle,  looking  more 
like  an  emeritus  professor  of  philosophy  than  like  a 
financier.  .  .  . 

TO    MRS.  JAMES   T.  FIELDS 

68  Beacon  Street,  Feb.  23,  1889. 

...  A  rain  of  flowers  came  down  on  me  yesterday 
as  on  a  virgin-martyr,  and  the  hard  seventieth  step  of 
my  climb  was  velveted  with  them.  They  were  very 
sweet,  but  such  gracious  words  from  you  two  (to  me, 
too)  were  even  sweeter.  That  two  such  charming 
women* — since  there  are  two  of  you  I  can  say  what 
I  like  without  impertinence — should  think  of  me  so 
kindly  makes  all  mankind  a  matter  of  indifference. 

I  shall  hope  to  see  you  this  afternoon,  but  may  be 
circumvented.  If  I  should  be  so  lucky  as  to  come, 
and  you  should  observe  a  pinch  of  condescension  in 

*  Mrs.  Fields  and  Miss  Jewett. 


366  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [l88g 

my  manner,  you  will  bear  with  it  when  I  tell  you  that 
I  was  listening  to  my  own  praises  for  two  hours  last 
night* — and  have  hardly  yet  got  used  to  the  discov 
ery  of  how  great  a  man  I  am.  A  poison,  you  know, 
may  be  distilled  from  laurel  leaves,  and  I  think  the 
very  smell  of  them  goes  to  the  head.  But,  after  all, 
everybody  isn't  seventy,  and  there  is  a  certain  promo 
tion  from  the  mob  in  that !  . 


TO   MRS.  LESLIE   STEPHEN 

68  Beacon  Street,  Feb.  27,  1889. 

...  I  have  been  forging  over  the  reef  of  my  seventieth 
birthday  into  the  smooth  water  beyond  without  much 
damage  to  my  keel,  so  far  as  I  can  discover.  Even 
had  I  been  wrecked  I  should  have  saved  your  box,  as 
Camoens  did  his  Lusiads.  'Tis  a  beauty,  and  I  shall 
fill  my  pipe  from  it  with  a  sense  of  virtue  as  if  I  were 
doing  something  handsome.  How  adroitly  indulgent 
you  women  are.  If  you  can't  cleanse  us  of  our  vices, 
you  contrive  to  make  them  so  far  as  possible  becoming. 

I  was  dined  on  my  birthday,  and  praised  to  a  de 
gree  that  would  have  satisfied  you,  most  partial  even 
of  your  sex.  But  somehow  I  liked  it,  and  indeed  none 
but  a  pig  could  have  helped  liking  the  affectionate  way 
it  was  done.  I  suppose  it  is  a  sign  of  weakness  in  me 
somewhere,  but  I  can't  help  it.  I  do  like  to  be  liked. 
It  gives  me  a  far  better  excuse  for  being  about  (and 
in  everybody's  way)  than  having  written  a  fine  poem 
does.  That '//  be  all  very  well  when  one  is  under  the 

*  At  a  dinner  in  his  honor  at  the  Tavern  Club. 


1889]  TO    MRS.   S.   WEIR    MITCHELL  367 

mould.     But  I  am  not  sure  whether  one  will  care  for 
it  much.     So  keep  on  liking  me,  won't  you  ? 

It  is  very  droll  to  be  seventy.  Don't  scold  me  for 
it — I'll  never  do  it  again ;  but  I  don't  feel  any  older, 
I  think,  and  I  am  sure  I  don't  feel  any  wiser,  than  I 
did  before.  'Tis  a  little  depressing  to  be  reminded 
that  one  has  lived  so  long  and  done  so  little.  When 
I  measure  the  length  with  the  achievement  there  is  a 
horrible  overlapping,  but  I  shall  expect  a  certain  def 
erence.  Whatever  condescension  I  show  will  be  mul 
tiplied  by  seven  instead  of  six,  remember,  and  precious 
in  proportion.  .  .  . 

TO   MRS.  S.  WEIR   MITCHELL 

68  Beacon  Street,  Boston,  March  9,  1889. 
Dear  Mrs.  Mitchell, — I  am  not  so  clever  as  you  show 
yourself  to  be  in  the  size  of  your  sheets  of  paper,  which 
reminds  me  of  that  prudence  one  learns  in  Italy  of  or 
dering  one  ration  (una  porzione)  for  two  persons.  Nor, 
though  I  have  so  many  letters  to  write,  and  using  as  I 
do  a  more  generous  sheet,  can  I  divest  myself  of  the 
feeling  that  there  is  a  kind  of  inhospitality  in  leaving 
my  fourth  page  blank.  Am  I  flattering  myself,  as  we 
generally  do  when  there  is  a  choice  of  motives,  by 
assuming  that  we  act  from  the  better  ?  and  is  this  feel 
ing  but  a  superstition  derived  from  those  heathen  times 
(before  yours)  when  a  single  postage  was  i8f  cents 
(written  in  red  ink,  as  if  in  the  very  life-blood  of  the 
correspondent),  and  one  felt  that  one  didn't  get  an 
honest  pennyworth  unless  one  filled  every  scribable  cor- 


368  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1889 

ner  of  his  foolscap?  Now,  you  think  I  mean  by  this 
that  I  should  have  answered  your  note  sooner  had  I  as 
tiny  quarto  as  your  own  to  write  upon.  But  nothing 
of  the  kind.  It  was  because  I  remembered  that  I  had 
promised  you  something.  .  .  . 

I  have  been  doing  my  best  to  be  seventy,  and  have 
had  a  dinner,  and  all  kinds  of  nice  things  were  said 
about  me,  and  it  was  very  pleasant  to  think  that  people 
were  so  kind.  But  I  feel  that  they  were  trying  to  make 
it  up  to  me  for  having  been  guilty  of  some  sort  of 
gaucherie,  as  when  one  knocks  over  a  stand  with  some 
frail  thing  on  it  that  can't  be  replaced,  and  is  condoled 
with,  "  It's  not  of  the  least  consequence."  Well,  I  have 
made  up  my  mind  never  to  do  it  again.  But  really  I 
am  quite  ashamed  to  find  how  well  people  think  of  me, 
and  yet  I  can't  help  liking  it  too.  I  feel  as  if  it  some 
how  justified  my  friends. 

I  often  think  of  my  pleasant  week  with  you  in  Wal 
nut  Street.  I  have  now  two  memories  of  Philadelphia, 
antithetic  one  to  the  other — the  Quaker  one  of  forty- 
five  years  ago,  and  that  of  yesterday  so  very  unlike  it, 
and  both  so  good.  How  far  away  seems  and  is  the  first, 
for  it  is  extinct  as  the  dodo.  It  was  very  sweet  in  its 
provincial  valley  of  self-sufficientness  and  contentment. 
It  had  a  flavor  beyond  terrapin.  But  the  telegraph 
has  cosmopolitanized  us  in  spite  of  ourselves ;  the  whole 
world  has  but  one  set  of  nerves,  and  we  all  have  the 
headache  together.  And,  after  all,  Europe  has  the  ad 
vantage  of  us  still,  for  it  has  been  endowed  with  the 
gift  of  prescience  and  hears  what  happens  here  before 
it  has  happened.  Do  what  we  will,  they  get  the  elder 
brother's  portion.  But  I  am  droning. 


1889]  TO    S.   WEIR    MITCHELL  369 

And  I  had  taken  my  passage  for  the  2/th  April,  and 
now  they  insist  on  my  being  in  New  York  on  the  3Oth 
to  speak  for  Literature.  I  had  twice  refused,  for  I  think 
I  am  fairly  entitled  to  my  share  of  silence  now  ;  but  they 
set  Holmes  at  me,  they  set  Eliot  at  me,  and  I  am  almost 
afraid  I  shall  give  in.  I  console  myself  by  stating  and 
thinking  that  length  also  has  in  it  an  element  of  majesty. 

Well,  I  must  leave  you  a  small  mercy  of  blank  paper 
yet,  for  I  fly  to  the  Cunard  office  to  see  if  I  can  make 
some  arrangement  that  will  comport  with  my  martyr- 
ization.  Would  I  had  the  proper  spirit  that  Borachio 
showed  when  they  told  him  to  come  out  and  be  hanged. 

With  kindest  regards  to  Dr.  Mitchell  and  your  daugh 
ter  and  the  MacVeaghs  (of  whom  I  had  too  short  a 
glimpse  here)  and  Marguerite,  and  with  remembrances 
to  whoever  remembers  me, 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO    S.  WEIR   MITCHELL 

68  Beacon  Street,  April  2,  1889. 

Dear  Mitchell,  —  Your  letter  of  St.  Valentine's  day 
would  not  have  waited  so  long  for  an  answer  had  the 
address  on  the  cover  been  in  your  own  handwriting.  As 
it  was,  I  too  hastily  concluded  the  missive  to  be  from  an 
autograph  hunter,  one  of  those  perverse  persons  who 
seek  for  a  sign  and  to  whom  no  sign  shall  be  given.  I 
tossed  it  among  a  heap  of  others  on  the  top  of  a  revolv 
ing  bookstand  at  my  elbow,  and  there  it  lay  all  these 
weeks  without  any  sign  of  ill-humor.  But  yesterday,  as 
I  reached  for  a  book,  one  letter  disengaged  itself  from 
II.— 24 


370  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1889 

the  rest  and  fell  on  the  floor  at  my  feet.  I  picked  it 
up,  observed  that  it  had  never  been  opened,  again  took  it 
for  an  autograph  beggar,  and  was  about  to  toss  it  back 
among  its  fellows,  when  it  struck  me  that  it  was  too  thin 
to  contain  a  stamped  envelope.  So  I  opened  it,  and 
there  was  your  valentine.  The  thing  struck  me  as  odd. 
There  was  a  heap  of  letters,  this  one  was  not  on  top, 
and  yet  was  the  only  one  that  struggled  forth  and  fell. 
How  explain  these  mysteries?  Chance  is  a  mighty 
clever  fellow. 

I  was  deeply  interested  in  your  pamphlet.  I  think 
it  lays  most  of  the  ghosts,  perhaps  not  all.  I  believe 
them  all  (so  far  as  they  seem  to  be  objectively  visible) 
figments  of  the  brain.  But  my  doubt  is  whether  there 
must  not  have  been  some  preceding  impression  of  the 
nearness  of  that  person  whose  eidolon  seems  to  be  seen 
in  order  to  produce  the  image.  Given  that  impression, 
the  imagination  sees  that  person  (with  all  the  accidents 
of  gait,  gesture,  dress  even)  as  the  eye  had  been  accus 
tomed  to  see  him  when  in  the  body.  (I  am  thinking  of 
a  German  ghost  which  paraded  in  a  bottle-green  coat 
with  brass  buttons.)  To  be  sure  this  perhaps  is  only 
proposing  an  alternative  explanation  of  phenomena  bet 
ter,  at  least  more  simply,  accounted  for  by  your  cases. 
I  have  long  believed  my  own  visions  to  be  all  my  eye, 
though  I  cannot  remember  that  they  were  ever  followed 
by  headache.  Those  could  be  shut  out  by  closing  the 
lids ;  but  what  of  those  I  see  with  my  eyes  shut,  that 
come  and  go  and  change  without  my  will,  or  even  in 
spite  of  it?  Is  everything  one  has  ever  seen  laid  away 
in  the  eye  as  a  photographer  stores  his  negatives? 


1889]  TO   S.  WEIR   MITCHELL  371 

And  is  there  something  analogous  in  the  mind's  eye, 
the  memory? 

I  was  particularly  struck  with  the  case  of  the  lady 
who  observed  that  the  movements  of  her  sister's  image 
were  governed  by  that  of  her  own  eye.  What  a  happy 
example  of  the  difference  between  lookers  and  seers, 
between  the  ordinary  and  the  scientific  habit  of  mind. 

By  the  way,  have  you  sent  your  pamphlets  to  the 
psychical-research  men?  To  William  James,  for  exam 
ple.  To  me  a  physical  marvel  is  as  interesting  as  a 
spiritual  one,  though  in  a  different  way.  Pardon  my 
garrulity,  busy  man  that  you  are,  and,  with  kindest  re 
gards  to  Mrs.  Mitchell,  be  sure  that  I  am 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL.* 

TO    THE    SAME 

Boston,  May  16,  1889. 

My  dear  Mitchell, — I  am  vainly  trying  to  work  my 
correspondence  up  to  date  before  I  sail  day  after  to 
morrow.  I  have  been  thoroughly  fagged  with  an  intro 
duction  to  the  "  Complete  Angler,"  which  I  had  pledged 

*  Note  by  Dr.  Mitchell : 

"  My  sending  the  essay  alluded  to  arose  out  of  a  long  talk 
about  ghosts,  which  took  us  deep  into  the  night  twice  during  the 
fortnight  spent  with  us  in  1889.  Mr.  Lowell  told  me  that  since 
boyhood  he  had  been  subject  to  visions,  which  appeared  usually 
in  the  evening.  Commonly  he  saw  a  figure  in  mediseval  cos 
tume  which  kept  on  one  side  of  him.  The  last  vision  he  had 
was  while  staying  at  an  English  country-house.  After  dinner,  in 
the  drawing-room,  he  saw  a  figure  in  the  dress  of  a  mediaeval 
scholar.  The  form  was  very  distinct.  It  beckoned  to  him, 
and,  determined  to  see  where  it  would  go,  he  followed  it  out  on 
to  the  terrace,  where  of  a  sudden  it  disappeared." 


372  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1889 

myself  to  finish  ere  I  went.  But  I  must  write  a  line  of 
thanks  for  the  book  which  came  this  morning.  I  have 
stolen  time  to  read  so  much  as  would  enable  me  to  tell 
you  how  much  I  like  it  (the  "Dream  Song"  is  exquisite) 
— almost  more  than  the  other,  and  that  is  saying  a  great 
deal.  It  is  rather  hard  on  us  old  fellows  to  wait  so  long 

o 

and  then  push  us  from  our  stools.     I  am  half  minded  to 
study  medicine  if  that's  what  does  it. 
With  kindest  regards  to  Mrs.  Mitchell, 

Cordially  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   R.  W.  GILDER 

68  Beacon  Street,  May  16,  1889. 

.  .  .  When  I  saw  you  last  I  told  you  I  had  disap, 
pointed  you,  and  so  I  had,  and  quite  rightly  too,  though 
you  denied  it  as  you  were  bound  to  do.  I  don't  mean 
that  the  speech*  was  bad  as  speeches  go,  to  judge  by 
the  latest  quotations,  but  I  delivered  it  as  if  I  thought 
it  was.  The  truth  was  that  they  made  me  write  it  out 
before  I  was  ready,  and  that  tempted  me  to  try  commit 
ting  it  to  memoiy  and  I  couldn't,  and  I  had  no  entire 
copy  and  that  bothered  me.  Then  I  was  disheartened 
by  the  size  of  the  house.  The  sort  of  things  I  am  apt  to 
say  are  not  exactly  to  be  bawled,  and  without  bawling 
I  might  as  well  have  expected  to  fill  the  Cave  of  Ken 
tucky.  I  felt  as  Jack  Ketch  must  after  the  Star  Cham 
ber  was  abolished  and  the  fine  crops  of  the  plentiful 

*  In  response  to  the  toast,  "  Our  Literature,"  at  the  banquet 
in  New  York,  given  in  commemoration  of  the  hundredth  anni 
versary  of  Washington's  Inauguration. 


1889]  TO    MRS.  W.   K.  CLIFFORD  373 

Prynne  and  Bastwick  years  were  gone,  when  he  looked 
about  on  the  harvest  of  ears  ripening  for  his  sickle,  but 
denied  to  its  hungry  edge.  There  were  the  ears  (long 
or  otherwise),  but  I  knew  they  were  beyond  my  reach. 
I  slumped  into  my  temperament. 

However,  I  did  not  cry  over  it.  I  was  too  busy.  I 
have  been  writing  an  introduction  to  the  "  Complete 
Angler,"  and  a  poem  which  I  have  had  in  my  head  for 
a  good  while,  and  which  buzzed  so  the  moment  my 
brain  went  a-Maying  that  I  had  to  let  it  out.  I  wonder 
whether  you  will  like  it.  I  rather  hope  you  may. 

You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  I  hope  to  have  a  home 
of  my  own  again  when  I  come  back  in  the  fall.  I  think 
it  probable  that  I  can  arrange  to  live  at  Elmwood  with 
my  daughter.  I  couldn't  without  her.  Tis  worth 
trying.  .  .  . 

TO   MRS.    W.   K.   CLIFFORD 

2  Radnor  Place,  Hyde  Park,  W., 
June  n,  1889. 

Dear  Mrs.  Clifford, — You  ask  me  as  many  questions 
as  if  you  were  a  Royal  Commission,  and  two  of  them — 
"  Do  I  know  you  ?"  and  "  Do  you  know  me?" — are  sim 
ply  unanswerable,  though  I  think  I  might  answer  one  of 
them  after  a  fashion  by  saying  that  I  never  knew  a  sin 
gle  woman  in  my  life — each  of  them  being  so  various  (I 
won't  add  the  poet's  other  epithet)  and  so  apt,  like  Dar 
win's  insects,  but  more  quickly,  to  put  on  whatever  self- 
protective  color  of  sympathy  suits  their  immediate  pur 
pose  or  need. 

Somewhere  in  Scripture  (in  Proverbs,  I  think,  attrib- 


374  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1889 

uted  to  Solomon,  who  had  an  unrivalled  experience  in 
this  branch  of  natural  history)  a  great  many  disagree 
able  things  are  said  about  women,  but  I  do  not  remem 
ber  that  "  putting  their  foot  in  it "  is  to  be  found  in  the 
indictment.  But  you  have  managed  to  do  so — just  the 
smallest  foot  in  the  world,  of  course.  You  say  you  had 
"forgotten"  me  last  winter.  Precisely  what  I  supposed. 
Habeo  confitentem  deam  !  Why  couldn't  you  have  said 
"  neglected  "  and  saved  my  pride  ? 

As  for  the  weather,  you  put  your  case  very  prettily, 
but  so  far  as  I  am  concerned  I  always  make  my  own. 
My  weather  is  purely  subjective.  When  I  say  I  make 
my  own  I  mean  that  it  is  made  for  me,  but  in  my  own 
workshop  and  in  my  own  little  theatre. 

Typewriters  quotha!  They  are  as  bad  as  postal- 
cards.  Both  of  them  are  unclean  things  I  have  never 
touched.  Typewriting  is  hard  to  read  also,  harder  even 
than  you.  I  am  sure  I  could  never  say  what  I  would  if 
I  had  to  pick  out  my  letters  like  a  learned  pig,  and  on  a 
wooden  key-board  too.  But  what  is  all  this  to  the  pur 
pose?  What  I  mean  to  say  is,  that  I  will  come  Wednes 
day  afternoon.  .  .  . 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   MRS.  EDWARD   BURNETT 

Whitby,  Aug.  4,  1889. 

...  I  came  hither  two  days  ago  and  was  received 
with  enthusiasm  by  the  Misses  Galilee,  my  landladies. 
'Tis  my  third  year  with  them,  and  they  vow  they  will 
never  let  my  rooms  (the  best  in  the  house)  so  long  as 


1889]  TO   MRS.   LESLIE  STEPHEN  375 

there  is  any  chance  of  my  coming.  I  like  it  as  much 
as  ever.  You  know  the  view  from  my  window  by  Chad- 
wick's  little  sketch.  I  never  weary  of  it.  The  Abbey 
says  to  me,  "  The  best  of  us  get  a  little  shaky  at  last, 
and  there  get  to  be  gaps  in  our  walls,"  and  then  the 
church-yard  adds,  "  But  you've  no  notion  what  good 
beds  there  are  at  my  inn." 

We  made  a  tea-party  yesterday  afternoon  to  Rigg 
Mill,  where  dwell  a  dear  old  couple  named  Harrison. 
He  talks  a  pure  Yorkshire  that  delights  my  soul.  The 
mill  runs  no  longer,  but  the  stream  does,  down  through 
a  leafy  gorge  in  little  cascades  and  swirls  and  quiet 
pools  with  skyscapes  in  them,  and  seems  happy  in 
its  holiday.  It  is  a  very  pretty  spot  and  belonged  to 
the  monks  once.  .  .  . 

TO    MRS.  LESLIE  STEPHEN 

Whitby,  Aug.  11,  1889. 

.  .  .  The  Abbey  looks  across  over  the  red  roofs  into 
my  window  and  seems  to  say,  "  Why  are  you  not  at , 
church  to-day?"  and  I  answer  fallaciously,  "  Because  like 
yourself  I  have  gone  out  of  .the  business,  and,  more 
over,  I  am  writing  to  a  certain  saint  of  my  own  canon 
ization  who  looks  amazingly  as  your  St.  Hilda  must 
have  looked  (as  I  fancy  her),  and  the  thought  of  whom 
has  both  prayers  and  praise  in  it."  The  Abbey  doesn't 
look  satisfied,  but  I  am — so  the  Abbey  may  go  hang  ! 
Besides,  am  I  not  honoring  the  day  with  a  white  shirt 
and  well-blackened  boots  ?  and  when  I  presently  go  out 
shall  I  not  crown  my  head  with  a  chimney-pot  hat  ? 
which,  rather  than  the  cross,  is  the  symbol  of  the  Eng- 


376  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1889 

lishman's  faith  —  being  stiff,  hollow,  pervious  to  the 
rain,  and  divided  in  service  between  Babylon  and  Sion. 

This  is  my  ninth  year  at  Whitby,  and  the  place  loses 
none  of  its  charm  for  me.  It  is  better  than  Cornwall, 
except  inasmuch  as  Cornwall  has  St.  Erth's  in  it,  where 
sometimes  one  has  beatific  visions.  I  find  a  strange 
pleasure  in  that  name  too,  so  homely  and  motherly,  as 
if  some  pope  had  suddenly  bethought  himself  to  canon 
ize  this  dear  old  Earth  of  ours  so  good  to  us  all,  and 
give  the  body  as  well  as  the  soul  a  share  in  those 
blessed  things.  My  happiness  is  so  much  at  the  mercy 
of  obscure  sympathies  and  antipathies  that  perhaps  I 
am  less  at  ease  among  a  Celtic  population  (though 
I  fancy  them  more  refined)  than  among  these  men  of 
Danish  stock  with  whom  I  own  kinship  of  blood.  But 
you  are  enough  to  leaven  the  biggest  batch  of  Celts 
that  ever  was  baked,  so  I  am  coming  to  you  as  soon  as 
I  leave  Whitby,  or  shall  it  be  later  ?  .  .  . 

Whitby  is  coming  more  and  more  into  the  great 
currents  of  civilization.  We  have  a  spasmodic  thea 
tre  and  an  American  circus  that  seems  a  fixture.  Last 
year  there  was  a  delightful  clown  who  really  looked 
as  if  he  couldn't  help  it,  and  was  a  wonderful  tumbler 
too.  How  the  children  would  have  liked  it !  One 
other  amusement  is  the  Spa,  where  there  is  a  band  of 
music  bad  enough  to  please  the  Shah.  It  is  brilliantly 
lighted,  and  at  night  it  is  entertaining  to  sit  above 
and  watch  the  fashionable  world  laboriously  divert 
ing  themselves  by  promenading  to  and  fro  in  groups, 
like  a  village  festival  at  the  opera.  The  sea,  of  course, 
is  as  fine  and  as  irreconcilable  as  ever.  Thank  God, 


1889]  TO   C.  E.  NORTON  377 

they  can't  landscape-garden  him.  I  think  I  have  con 
fessed  to  you  before  that  our  colors  are  not  so  south 
ern  as  yours.  On  the  land  they  are  as  good  as  they 
can  be  in  range,  variety,  and  fickleness.  .  .  . 


TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Whitby,  Aug.  18,  1889. 

.  .  .  You  are  a  little  severe  in  your  judgment  of 
English  society.  Buffalo  Bill  has  been  taken  up  by  a 
certain  layer  of  society,  but  not,  I  should  say,  by  so 
ciety  in  its  better  sense.  The has  debased  a  con 
siderable  circle,  the  circumference  of  which  is  spread 
ing,  as  in  stagnant  pools  a  circle  once  started  will. 
There  is  a  partial  truth  in  what  you  say  about  society 
here  losing  its  fastidiousness,  but  this  is  mainly  true  of 

the  *s   set,  and   those  who   are  infected  by  it  or 

wish  to  be  of  it.  I  have  not  met  B.  B.,  but  Colonel 
Colville  told  me  (you  know  him,  I  think  ?)  that  "  B.  B. 
was  one  of  the  finest  men  he  ever  saw  and  of  princely 
manners."  Moreover,  he  is  really  a  Somebody  and  the 
best  of  his  kind.  But  I  think  the  true  key  to  this 
eagerness  for  lions — even  of  the  poodle  sort — is  the 
dulness  of  the  average  English  mind.  I  never  come 
back  here  without  being  struck  with  it.  Henry  James 
said  it  always  stupefied  him  at  first  when  he  came  back 
from  the  Continent.  What  it  craves  beyond  every 
thing  is  a  sensation,  anything  that  will  serve  as  a  Wor 
cestershire  sauce  to  its  sluggish  palate.  We  of  finer 
and  more  touchy  fibre  get  our  sensations  cheaper,  and 
do  not  find  Wordsworth's  emotion  over  a  common 


378  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1889 

flower  so  very  wonderful.  People  are  dull  enough  on 
our  side  of  the  ocean-stream  also,  God  wot ;  but  here, 
unless  I  know  my  people,  I  never  dare  to  let  my  mind 
gambol.  Most  of  them,  if  I  ever  do,  look  on  like  the 
famous  deaf  man  at  the  dancers,  wondering  to  what 
music  I  am  capering.  They  call  us  superficial.  Let 
us  thank  God,  dear  Charles,  that  our  nerves  are  nearer 
the  surface,  not  so  deeply  embedded  in  fat  or  muscle 
that  wit  must  take  a  pitchfork  to  us. 

I  am  fairly  contented  here,  almost  happy  sometimes, 
nay,  should  be  often,  could  I  jump  off  my  own  shadow. 
I  know  no  expedient  to  get  rid  of  it  but  Peter  Schle- 
mihl's,  and  alas,  nobody,  not  even  the  D — 1,  thinks 
mine  worth  buying.  'Tis  a  beautiful  place,  with  asso 
ciations  that  touch  me  deeply  when  I  am  conscious 
of  them,  and  qualify  my  mood  insensibly  when  I  am 
not.  I  have  done  some  reading  in  Lope  de  Vega,  but 
am  not  drawn  to  him  or  by  him  as  to  and  by  Calde- 
ron.  Yet  he  is  wonderful,  too,  in  his  way.  .  .  . 


TO    MRS.  EDWARD   BURNETT 

Whitby,  Aug.  20,  1889. 

.  .  .  To-day  it  is  raining  (as  it  rains  here)  with  a 
gentle  persistence,  as  if  to  convince  one  by  degrees 
that  it  is  the  proper  thing  to  do.  I  think  of  the  bur 
then  of  the  old  ballad, 

"  The  rain  rins  doun  through  Merryland  toun, 
Sae  does  it  along  the  Po." 

I  fancy  the  old  fellow  who  made  it  was  trying  to  con- 


1889]  TO   THOMAS    HUGHES  379 

sole  himself  for  a  rainy  day  like  this  by  making  be 
lieve  it  was  raining  even  in  Italy,  too,  all  the  time. 
But  we  have  had  good  weather  on  the  whole,  and  the 
moors  are  born  again  in  the  purple.  I  went  to  Aislaby 
Moor  yesterday  and  lay  on  my  back  on  the  springy 
heather,  making  the  bees  very  wroth.  They  queru 
lously  insisted  that  the  heather  I  covered  was  the  very 
heather  they  had  been  saving  for  that  morning.  But 
they  did  not  push  things  to  extremities  with  me.  I 
couldn't  help  wishing  the  children  had  been  there,  they 
would  have  been  so  happy  in  that  wilderness  of  bloom. 
They  would  have  thought,  as  everybody  does,  that  the 
blossoms  a  little  farther  on  were  finer  than  those  about 
their  feet. 


TO   THOMAS  HUGHES 

Whitby,  Aug.  28,  1889. 

.  .  .  Whitby  is  as  good  as  ever,  and  has  now  another 
pleasant  association  in  recalling  you  and  Mrs.  Hughes. 
We  go  to  the  old  moors  and  the  old  mills  as  usual, 
though  our  weather  has  been  a  little  wrong  side  out 
a  good  deal  of  the  time.  Yesterday  we  had  a  thrill 
ing  experience  in  being  taken  (as  we  suppose)  by  the 
hostile  fleet.  At  any  rate,  three  men-o'-war  first  came 
in — very  unlike  the  noble  creatures  that  landed  royal 
Charlie — and  fired  three  heavy  guns  at  us,  and  as  we 
have  no  visible  means  of  support,  I  take  it  we  surren 
dered  and  that  I  am  now  a  prisoner  of  war.  I  am 
glad  I  saw  those  guns  fired,  for  the  smoke  behaved  in 
a  very  strange  and  beautiful  way,  first  rising  a  little  in 


380  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1889 

a  dense  cloud  and  in  a  semicircle  of  lingering  Staub- 
bachs,  completely  veiling  the  villanous -looking  mon 
sters  that  belched  them  forth. 

As  they  didn't  put  us  on  parole,  Mrs. and    I 

went  to  Scarborough — an  expedition  I  had  promised 
her  these  nine  years,  which  I  thought  it  hardly  safe 
to  put  off  any  longer  at  my  age.  We  had  a  fine  day, 
and  enjoyed  ourselves  highly.  I  had  always  wished  to 
see  the  place  since  I  read  "A  Trip  to  Scarborough," 
of  which  I  remember  now  nothing  more  than  the  name. 
We  went  up  to  the  Castle  (which  had  a  superbly  impreg 
nable  aerie  before  the  invention  of  gunpowder),  where 
we  saw  the  volunteer  artillery  encamped,  resolved  to 
save  Scarborough  from  the  fate  of  Whitby  or  die.  But 
the  fleet  never  came,  and  the  band  did  its  best  to  keep 
up  the  spirits  of  the  men  under  this  disappointment. 
We  saw  them  drilling  with  the  stretchers,  which  had  a 
grewsome  look,  and  heard  the  far-off  grumble  of  a  sea- 
fight  which  was  going  on  somewhere  behind  the  haze. 
We  had  the  satisfaction  of  communicating  to  one  of 
the  officers  the  fall  of  Whitby,  which  hardly  seemed  to 
sadden  him  so  much  as  it  ought — so  little  do  rival 
watering-places  feel  each  other's  misfortunes.  Then  we 
went  to  the  Spa,  lunched  at  an  eating-house  as  good  as 
it  was  cheap,  and  then  sat  watching  the  crowd.  They 
all  had  the  air  of  second-hand  gentility  trying  very 
hard  to  make  itself  believe  it  was  first-hand.  It  wasn't 
shabby  gentility,  but  the  profusely  new  thing  which  is 
far  worse.  It  takes  several  generations  to  make  clothes 
unconscious.  But  the  place  was  gay  and  as  many-col 
ored  as  Joseph's  coat,  and  I  liked  it  for  an  hour  or  two. 


1889]  TO    MRS.   LESLIE   STEPHEN  381 

Particularly  I  liked  the  little  open  traps  with  one  horse 
ridden  by  a  postilion  with  silken  jerkins  and  caps  of 
the  brightest  hues.  I  sat  with  immense  satisfaction 

o 

behind  one  whose  jacket  (stripes  red  and  white)  re 
called  the  flag  of  my  country.  On  the  whole  we  had 
a  successful  day,  and  on  the  way  home  one  of  the  most 
surprisingly  original  and  beautiful  sunsets  I  ever  saw. . . . 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   MRS.  LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Whitby,  Sept.  11,  1889. 

.  .  .  For  the  last  few  days  we  have  been  having  Amer 
ican  weather,  except  for  the  haze  which  softens  and  civ 
ilizes  (perhaps  I  should  say,  artistically  generalizes)  all  it 
touches,  like  the  slower  hand  of  time.  It  does  in  a 
moment  what  the  other  is  too  long  about  for  the  brev 
ity  of  our  lives.  How  I  do  love  this  unemphatic  land 
scape,  which  suggests  but  never  defines,  in  which  so 
much  license  is  left  to  conjecture  and  divination,  as  when 
one  looks  into  the  mysterious  beyond.  And  how  the 
robins  and  some  other  little  minstrels  whose  names  I 
don't  know  keep  on  pretending  it  is  the  very  fresh  of 
the  year.  I  think  few  people  are  made  as  happy  by 
the  singing  of  birds  as  I,  and  this  autumnal  music  (un 
known  at  home),  every  bush  a  song,  is  one  of  the  things 
that  especially  endear  England  to  me.  Even  without 
song,  birds  are  a  perpetual  delight,  and  the  rooks  alone 
are  enough  to  make  this  country  worth  living  in.  I 
wish  you  could  see  a  rook  who  every  morning  busies 


382  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1889 

himself  among  the  chimney-pots  opposite  my  chamber 
window.  For  a  good  while  I  used  to  hear  his  chuckle, 
but  thought  he  was  only  flying  over.  But  one  day  I 
got  out  of  bed  and  looked  out.  There  he  was  on  the 
top  of  a  chimney  opposite,  perambulating  gravely,  and 
now  and  then  cocking  his  head  and  looking  down  a  flue. 
Then  he  would  chuckle  and  go  to  another.  Then  to 
the  next  chimney  and  da  capo.  He  found  out  what 
they  were  going  to  have  for  breakfast  in  every  house/ 
and  whether  he  enjoyed  an  imaginary  feast  or  reckoned 
on  a  chance  at  some  of  the  leavings  I  know  not,  but  he 
was  evidently  enjoying  himself,  and  that  is  always  a 
consoling  thing  to  see.  Even  in  the  stingy  back-yards 
of  these  houses  too,  wherever  there  is  a  disconsolate 
shrub  a  robin  comes  every  morning  to  cheer  it  up  a 
bit  and  help  it  along  through  the  day. 

Since  I  wrote  what  I  did  about  the  weather  (one 
should  always  let  the  Eumenides  alone)  it  has  begun 
to  rain,  but  gently,  like  a  rain  that  was  trying  to  dis 
criminate  between  the  just  and  the  unjust,  and  sympa 
thized  with  those  confiding  enough  to  leave  their  um 
brellas  behind  them  (I  hate  to  expose  mine  any  more 
than  I  can  help,  for  reasons  of  my  own).  So  the  rain 
let  me  get  back  dry  from  the  beach,  whither  I  had  gone 
for  a  whiff  of  salt  air  and  a  few  earfuls  of  that  muffled 
crash  of  the  surf  which  is  so  soothing — perpetual  ruin 
with  perpetual  renewal. 

I  wonder  if  your  moors  have  been  as  gracious  as  ours 
this  year.  I  never  know  how  deeply  they  impress  me 
till  long  after  I  have  left  them,  and  then  I  wonder  at  the 
store  of  images  wherewith  they  have  peopled  my  mem- 


1889]  TO    MRS.   W.   E.   DARWIN  383 

ory.  But  what  is  the  use  of  my  asking  you  any  ques 
tions  when  you  tell  me  you  could  not  read  my  last  let 
ter?  Was  it  the  blue  paper  with  its  ribs  that  made  a 
corduroy  road  for  my  pen  to  jolt  over,  I  wonder,  or  my 
failing  eyesight,  or — and  this  is  saddest  to  think  of — the 
dulness  of  the  letter  itself?  Is  this  better?  I  am  try 
ing  to  write  as  well  as  I  can  for  my  dear  and  admirable 
friend,  but  what  would  you  have?  How  should  one 
write  letters  worth  reading  who  has  so  many  to  write  as 
I  ?  But  never  mind.  The  true  use  of  a  letter  is  to  let 
one  know  that  one  is  remembered  and  valued,  and  as 
you  are  sure  of  that,  perhaps  I  need  not  write  at  all ! 
No,  the  true  use  of  writing  is  that  it  brings  your  friend 
to  you  as  you  write,  and  so  I  have  your  sweet  society 
for  a  while,  and  you  need  have  only  just  as  much  of 
mine  as  you  choose  to  give  yourself.  .  .  . 

TO   MRS.  W.  E.  DARWIN 

Whitby,  Sept.  13,  1889. 

.  .  .  The  charm  of  this  place  and  the  kind-heartedness 
of  the  weather  have  Capuaed  me  here  longer  than  I 
meant. 

There  is  no  use  in  trying  to  tell  you  how  beautiful 
our  moors  have  been  —  pensively  gorgeous  like  the 
purple  mourning  that  used  to  be  worn  for  kings — as  if 
they  were  still  commemorating  the  lovely  funerals  of 
the  chieftains  whose  barrows  crown  their  summits. 
And  our  Abbey — didn't  I  see  it  a  few  nights  ago  with 
the  moon  shining  through  its  windows  till  one  fancied 
it  lighted  up  for  service  with  corpse-lights  for  candles, 


384  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1889 

and  heard  the  ghostly  miserere  of  the  monks  over  their 
ruin  ?  And  then  its  fantastic  transformation  by  the 
sea-mists!  Do  you  wonder  that  I  linger? 

I  hear  the  robins  singing  in  your  shrubbery  and  wish 
you  joy  of  them.  They  gladden  me  every  morning  from 
the  mangy  back-yards  of  the  houses  opposite.  What  is 
it  Donne  calls  them?  "The  household  bird  with  the 
red  stomacher,"  or  something  prettier.  I  am  doubtful 
about  "household."*  But  what  would  you  have  of  a 
memory  as  tumble-down  as  the  Abbey  yonder  ?  .  .  . 

TO   MRS.  EDWARD   BURNETT 

St.  Ives,  Sept.  23,  1889. 

...  I  am  very  well — really  so  absurd  a  septuagenarian 
is  seldom  met  with — and  my  stay  at  Whitby,  where  the 
weather  grew  to  be  almost  weakly  good-natured  at  last, 
did  me  good.  A  poem  even  got  itself  written  there 
(which  seems  to  me  not  altogether  bad),  and  this  in 
tense  activity  of  the  brain  has  the  same  effect  as  exer 
cise  on  my  body,  and  somehow  braces  up  the  whole 
machine.  My  writing  this  was  a  lucky  thing,  for  when 
I  got  back  to  London  I  found  a  letter  from  the  New 
York  Ledger  enclosing  a  draft  for  £200  for  whatever  I 
should  choose  to  send.  So  I  sent  them  what  I  had  just 
written,  pacifying  my  scruples  with  the  thought  that 
after  all  it  was  only  my  name  they  were  paying  for,  and 
that  they  knew  best  what  it  was  worth  to  them.  The 

*  Lowell's  recollection  of  the  verse  was  correct.  It  occurs  in 
Donne's  "  Epithalamion  on  Frederick,  Count  Palatine  of  the 
Rhine,  and  the  Lady  Elizabeth  being  married  on  St.  Valentine's 
Day. " 


1889]  TO    C.   E.   NORTON  385 

letter,  by  great  good  luck,  had  been  overlooked  and  not 
forwarded  to  Whitby  as  it  should  have  been.  Had  I 
got  it  before  my  poem  got  itself  out  of  me,  I  should 
have  been  quite  disabled  and  should  have  sent  back  the 
draft.  .  .  . 

TO    C.  E.  NORTON 

St.  Ives,  Sept.  24,  1889. 

.  .  .  Amor  che  nella  mente  mi  ragiona  has  often  bid 
me  write  to  you,  and  I  should  certainly  have  done  so, 
even  without  the  added  prompting  of  your  letter,  which 
came  to  me  just  as  I  was  starting  for  my  visit  here.  I 
am  at  best  a  poor  correspondent,  and  at  worst  no  cor 
respondent  at  all.  I  make  a  feint  of  excusing  myself 
(since  one  could  never  get  on  with  one's  faults  so  com 
placently  if  one  could  not  palliate  them)  by  reminding 
myself  that  I  grew  up  in  the  ampler  days  of  quarto, 
nay,  folio  letter-paper,  and  of  postage  that  inspired  re 
flection.  I  can't  get  over  the  feeling  that  less  than 
four  pages  is  niggardly  in  point  of  friendship  and  spend 
thrift  in  point  of  postage.  Moreover,  I  am  far  past  the 
period  when  I  was  a  constant  novelty  to  myself  and 
eager  to  communicate  it  to  all  and  sundry.  I  envy  the 
careless  profusion  with  which  a  younger  generation  scat 
ters  its  hasty  notes  as  fish  their  spawn,  while  I,  a  serious 
barn-door  fowl,  am  inclined  to  cackle  when  I  succeed  in 
laying  my  single  eggs  at  decorous  (increasingly  decorous) 
intervals.  Things  don't  happen  in  one  so  often  as  they 
once  did. 

I  also  read  "  Fitzgerald's  Correspondence  "  with  great 
interest  and  satisfaction.     I  quite  agree  with  you  that 
II.— 25 


386  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1889 

they  are  among  the  best  we  have.  I  fancy  he  took 
enough  pains  with  them  to  make  them  as  easy  as  they 
are.  They  were  his  only  means  of  communication  with 
the  outward  world,  of  translating  himself  as  it  were  into 
the  vulgar  tongue.  He  was  a  scholar  and  a  gentleman 
— I  change  the  order  of  the  words  because  I  fancy  a 
distinction  and  a  pleasing  one.  I  agree  with  you  as  to 
the  general  sanity  of  his  literary  judgments — though  he 
would  not  have  been  so  agreeable  as  he  is  without  a 
few  honest  prejudices  too.  We  are  so  hustled  about 
by  fortune  that  I  found  solace  as  I  read  in  thinking 
that  here  was  a  man  who  insisted  on  having  his  life  to 
himself,  and  largely  had  it  accordingly.  A  hermit,  by 
the  bye,  as  he  was,  has  a  great  advantage  in  forming 
secure  conclusions.  Another  charm  of  the  book  to  me 
was  that  it  so  often  reminded  me  of  J.  H. 

I  spent  my  usual  month  at  Whitby  and  indeed 
stretched  it  to  six  weeks,  the  weather  grew  so  oblig 
ing.  I  did  very  little,  but  felt  remarkably  well,  which 
at  my  age  is  perhaps  as  wise  an  employment  as  another. 
I  read  a  little  of  Lope,  a  little  of  Dante,  and  a  good 
deal  of  Milton,  convincing  myself  of  what  I  had  long 
taken  for  granted,  that  his  versification  was  mainly 
modelled  on  the  Italian  and  especially  on  the  "  Divina 
Commedia."  Many  if  not  most  of  his  odd  construc 
tions  are  to  be  sought  there,  I  think,  rather  than  in  the 
ancients.  I  read  something  of  Byron,  too,  with  an  odd 
feeling  of  surprise  that  the  frame-work  of  the  fire-works 
{feux  d' artifice  says  more)  which  so  dazzled  my  youth 
should  look  so  bare.  I  read  some  Old  French,  hav 
ing-  received  about  a  dozen  volumes  of  the  "Anciens 


1889]  TO   THE   MISSES    LAWRENCE  387 

Textes  "  that  were  due  me.  Mainly  dull — nothing  like 
the  "  Galerant "  of  last  year.  I  dread  falling  under  its 
spell  again  when  I  go  back  to  Elmwood  and  the  old 
associations,  for  I  can't  see  exactly  what  good  it  has 
done  me  or  anybody  else.  The  average  result  of  my 
Whitby  seems  to  be  that  the  moors  and  shy  footpaths 
round  about  it  are  dearer  to  me  than  ever. 

After  getting  back  at  last  to  London,  where  I  halted 
a  day  to  copy  and  correct  a  poem  which  I  forgot  to  say 
was  one  of  my  Whitby  results,  I  went  down  for  a  visit 
of  two  or  three  days  in  Hampshire.  On  my  way  up 
again  I  stopped  a  few  hours  at  Winchester,  where  I  had 
the  advantage  of  going  over  the  Cathedral  with  the 
dean.  The  Norman  transept  seemed  to  me  the  best 
of  it — so  massive  that  it  gives  one  the  impression  of 
being  a  work  of  nature,  like  a  cliff  in  which  the  fancy 
pleases  itself  with  tracing  marks  of  architectural  de 
sign.  .  .  . 

TO   THE   MISSES   LAWRENCE 

2  Radnor  Place,  Hyde  Park,  W., 
Oct.  2, 1889. 

...  I  am  looking  (they  tell  me)  younger  than  ever, 
which  is  almost  indecent  at  my  time  of  life  when  I 
consider  the  Psalmist.  However,  I  don't  much  mind 
being  young.  'Tis  the  other  thing  I  dread,  and  I  hope  I 
sha'n't  have  much  of  it.  Thus  far  the  earth  seems  to 
me  as  beautiful  as  ever,  and  the  new  song  of  the  birds 
in  spring  renews  me  with  the  renewing  year.  The  grass 
hopper  is  not  yet  a  burthen,  and  as  for  the  ceasing  of 
desire,  I  think  the  fewer  we  have  the  more  likely  they 
are  to  be  gratified.  .  .  . 


388  LETTERS   OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1889 

TO   MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD 

2  Radnor  Place,  Hyde  Park,  W., 
Oct.  1 8,  1889. 

.  .  .  Old  poets  need  encouragement  far  more  than 
young  ones,  for  with  youth  and  inexperience  they  some 
times  lose  their  better  muse.  Art  may  be  won,  but  in 
experience  once  lost  can  never  be  recovered.  .  .  . 

Well,  good  -  by  till  next  spring,  if  next  spring  shall 
come  to  me.  , 


XI 

1889-1891 

RETURN  TO  ELMWOOD.  —  DECLINING  HEALTH.  —  VISIT  FROM 
LESLIE  STEPHEN. — THE  END. 

LETTERS  TO  MRS.  LESLIE  STEPHEN,  R.  W.  GILDER,  JOSIAH 
QUINCY,  THE  MISSES  LAWRENCE,  W.  D.  HOWELLS,  THOMAS 
HUGHES,  S.  WEIR  MITCHELL,  MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD, 
LESLIE  STEPHEN,  E.  L.  GODKIN,  MISS  KATE  FIELD,  C.  E. 
NORTON,  MISS  E.  G.  NORTON,  EDWARD  E.  HALE,  MRS.  F. 
G.  SHAW,  E.  R.  HOAR,  MRS.  BURNETT. 

TO   MRS.  LESLIE  STEPHEN 

Elmwood,  Nov.  9,  1889. 

...  It  is  a  very  strange  feeling  this  of  renewing  my 
life  here.  I  feel  somehow  as  if  Charon  had  ferried  me 
the  wrong  way,  and  yet  it  is  into  a  world  of  ghosts 
that  he  has  brought  me,  and  I  am  slowly  making  my 
self  at  home  among  them.  It  is  raining  faintly  to 
day,  with  a  soft  southerly  wind  which  will  prevail  with 
the  few  leaves  left  on  my  trees  to  let  go  their  hold 
and  join  their  fellows  on  the  ground.  I  have  forbid 
den  them  to  be  raked  away,  for  the  rustle  of  them  stirs 
my  earliest  memories,  and  when  the  wind  blows  they 
pirouette  so  gayly  as  to  give  me  cheerful  thoughts  of 
death.  But  oh,  the  changes !  I  hardly  know  the  old 
road  (a  street  now)  that  I  have  paced  so  many  years, 


390  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1889 

for  the  new  houses.  My  old  homestead  seems  to  have 
a  puzzled  look  in  its  eyes  as  it  looks  down  (a  trifle 
superciliously  methinks)  on  these  upstarts.  "  He  who 
lives  longest  has  the  most  old  clothes,"  says  the  Zulu 
proverb,  and  I  shall  wear  mine  till  I  die. 

It  is  odd  to  think  that  the  little  feet  which  make  the 
old  staircases  and  passages  querulous  at  their  broken 
slumbers  are  the  second  generation  since  my  own.  I 
try  to  believe  it,  but  find  it  hard.  I  feel  so  anomalously 
young  I  can't  persuade  myself  that  /  ever  made  such 
a  rumpus,  though  perhaps  the  boots  are  thicker  now. 

The  two  old  English  elms  in  front  of  the  house  haven't 
changed.  The  sturdy  islanders  !  A  trifle  thicker  in  the 
waist,  perhaps,  as  is  the  wont  of  prosperous  elders,  but 
looking  just  as  I  first  saw  them  seventy  years  ago, 
and  it  is  a  balm  to  my  eyes.  I  am  by  no  means  sure 
that  it  is  wise  to  love  the  accustomed  and  familiar  so 
much  as  I  do,  but  it  is  pleasant  and  gives  a  unity  to 
life  which  trying  can't  accomplish. 

I  began  this  yesterday  and  now  it  is  Sunday.  You 
will  have  not  gone  to  church  five  hours  ago.  I  have 
just  performed  the  chief  function  of  a  householder  by 
winding  up  all  the  clocks  and  adjusting  them  to  a 
striking  unanimity.  I  doubt  if  this  be  judicious,  for 
when  I  am  lying  awake  at  night  their  little  differences 
of  opinion  amuse  me.  They  persuade  me  how  artificial 
a  contrivance  Time  is.  We  have  Eternity  given  us  in 
the  lump,  can't  believe  in  such  luck,  and  cut  it  up  into 
mouthfuls  as  if  it  wouldn't  go  round  among  so  many. 
Are  we  to  be  seduced  by  the  superstitious  observances 
of  the  earth  and  sun  into  a  belief  in  days  and  years  ?  .  .  . 


1889]  TO    JOSIAH    QUINCY   AND   R.  W.  GILDER  391 

TO  JOSIAH   QUINCY 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Dec.  10,  1889. 
Dear  Mr.  Quincy, — I  regret  very  much  that  I  cannot 
have   the   pleasure  of  joining  with  you   in  paying  re 
spect  to  a  man  so  worthy  of  it  as  Mr.  Cleveland.* 

Let  who  has  felt  compute  the  strain 

Of  struggle  with  abuses  strong, 
The  doubtful  course,  the  helpless  pain 

Of  seeing  best  intents  go  wrong. 

We,  who  look  on  with  critic  eyes, 
Exempt  from  action's  crucial  test, 

Human  ourselves,  at  least  are  wise 
In  honoring  one  who  did  his  best. 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   R.  W.  GILDER 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Dec.  22,  1889. 
...  I  should  have  been  glad  to  preside  at  the  break 
fast  of  the  Copyright  League,  but  I  really  couldn't. 
Such  things  worry  me  nowadays  more  than  you  could 
easily  conceive.  They  take  more  life  out  of  me  than 
I  can  afford  to  give.  Kept  in  this  shelter,  my  candle 
seems  to  have  some  stuff  left  and  shortens  at  a  hope 
fully  moderate  rate ;  but  set  it  in  a  flurry  of  air  and  the 
deuce  is  in  it,  it  so  swales  and  runs  to  waste.  .  .  . 


*  At  the  banquet  of  the  Boston  Merchants'  Association,  where 
ex-President  Cleveland  was  the  chief  guest,  on  December  i2th. 


392  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1890 

TO   THE    MISSES   LAWRENCE 

Elm  wood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Jan.  2,  1890. 
.  .  .  Here  I  am  again  in  the  house  where  I  was  born 
longer  ago  than  you  can  remember,  though  I  wish  you 
more  New  Year's  days  than  I  have  had.  Tis  a  pleas 
ant  old  house  just  about  twice  as  old  as  I  am,  four  miles 
from  Boston,  in  what  was  once  the  country  and  is  now 
a  populous  suburb.  But  it  still  has  some  ten  acres  of 
open  about  it,  and  some  fine  old  trees.  When  the 
worst  comes  to  the  worst  (if  I  live  so  long)  I  shall  still 
have  four  and  a  half  acres  left  with  the  house,  the  rest 
belonging  to  my  brothers  and  sisters  or  their  heirs.  It 
is  a  square  house  with  four  rooms  on  a  floor,  like  some 
houses  of  the  Georgian  era  I  have  seen  in  English  pro 
vincial  towns,  only  they  are  of  brick  and  this  is  of  wood. 
But  it  is  solid  with  its  heavy  oaken  beams,  the  spaces 
between  which  in  the  four  outer  walls  are  filled  in  with 
brick,  though  you  mustn't  fancy  a  brick-and-timber 
house,  for  outwardly  it  is  sheathed  with  wood.  In 
side  there  is  much  wainscot  (of  deal)  painted  white  in 
the  fashion  of  the  time  when  it  was  built.  It  is  very 
sunny,  the  sun  rising  so  as  to  shine  (at  an  acute  angle, 
to  be  sure)  through  the  northern  windows,  and  going 
round  the  other  three  sides  in  the  course  of  the  day. 
There  is  a  pretty  staircase  with  the  quaint  old  twisted 
banisters — which  they  call  balusters  now,  but  mine  are 
banisters.  My  library  occupies  two  rooms  opening  into 
each  other  by  arches  at  the  sides  of  the  ample  chim 
neys.  The  trees  I  look  out  on  are  the  earliest  things 
I  remember.  There  you  have  me  in  my  new-old  quar- 


1890]  TO   THE   MISSES   LAWRENCE  393 

ters.  But  you  must  not  fancy  a  large  house  —  rooms 
sixteen  feet  square  and,  on  the  ground  floor,  nine  high. 
It  was  large,  as  things  went  here,  when  it  was  built, 
and  has  a  certain  air  of  amplitude  about  it  as  from 
some  inward  sense  of  dignity. 

Now  for  out  of  doors.  What  do  you  suppose  the 
thermometer  is  about  on  this  second  day  of  January? 
I  was  going  to  say  he  was  standing  on  his  head — at 
any  rate  he  has  forgotten  what  he's  about,  and  is  mark 
ing  sixty-three  degrees  Fahrenheit  on  the  north  side 
of  the  house  and  in  the  shade  !  Where  is  that  sense 
of  propriety  that  once  belonged  to  the  seasons  ?  This 
is  flat  communism,  January  insisting  on  going  halves 
with  May.  News  I  have  none,  nor  other  resources,  as 
you  see,  save  those  of  the  special  correspondent,  who 
takes  to  description  when  events  fail.  Yes,  I  have  one 
event.  I  dine  to-night  with  Mr.  R.  C.  Winthrop,  who 
remembers  your  father  very  well  nearly  sixty  years 
ago. 

I  have  all  my  grandchildren  with  me,  five  of  them, 
and  the  eldest  boy  is  already  conspiring  with  a  beard ! 
It  is  awful,  this  stealthy  advance  of  Time's  insupporta 
ble  foot.  There  are  two  ponies  for  the  children  and 
two  dogs,  bull-terriers,  and  most  amiable  creatures. 
This  is  my  establishment,  and  four  of  the  weans  have 
had  the  grippe.  I  remember  it  here  in  '31,  I  think  it 
was.  You  see  I  make  all  I  can  of  age's  one  privilege 
—that  of  having  a  drearier  memory  than  other  folks. 

I  forgot  one  thing.  There  are  plenty  of  mice  in  the 
walls,  and,  now  that  I  can't  go  to  the  play  with  you,  I 
assist  at  their  little  tragedies  and  comedies  behind  the 


394  LETTERS   OF    JAMES   RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1890 

wainscot  in  the  night-hours  and  build  up  plots  in  my 
fancy.  'Tis  a  French  company,  for  I  hear  them  dis 
tinctly  say  wee,  wee,  sometimes.  My  life,  you  see,  is 
not  without  its  excitements,  and  what  are  your  Lon 
don  mice  doing  that  is  more  important  ?  I  see  you  are 
to  have  a  Parnell  scandal  at  last,  but  I  overheard  an 
elopement  the  other  night  behind  the  wainscot,  and 
the  solicitors  talking  it  over  with  the  desolated  hus 
band  afterwards.  It  was  very  exciting.  Ten  thousand 
grains  of  corn  damages ! 

Good-by,  and  take  care  of  yourselves  till  I  come  with 
the  daffodils.  I  wish  you  both  many  a  happy  New 
Year  and  a  share  for  me  in  some  of  them.  Poets  seem 
to  live  long  nowadays,  and  I,  too,  live  in  Arcadia  after 
my  own  fashion. 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  L. 

TO  W.  D.  HOWELLS 

Elmwood,  Jan.  10,  1890. 

.  .  .  And  now  let  me  say  something  I  have  been  wish 
ing  to  say  this  great  while.  I  have  seen  some  of  the 
unworthy  flings  at  you  in  the  papers  of  late.  I  know 
you  will  not  feel  them  more  than  an  honest  man  should. 
But  I  have  indignantly  felt  them.  You  are  one  of  the 
chief  honors  of  our  literature,  and  your  praises  are  dear 
to  us  all.  You  know  I  don't  share  some  of  your  opin 
ions  or  sympathize  with  some  of  your  judgments,  but  I 
am  not  such  an  ass  as  not  to  like  a  man  better  for  say 
ing  what  he  thinks  and  not  what  /  think.  Though  I 
thought  those  Chicago  ruffians  well  hanged,  I  specially 


1890]  TO   S.  WEIR   MITCHELL  395 

honored  your  courage  in  saying  what  you  did  about 
them.    You  can't  make  me  fonder  of  you,  but  I  am  sure 
you  will  make  me  prouder  of  you. 
And  so  I  am 

Always  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


TO  S.  WEIR  MITCHELL 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  April  4,  1890. 

Dear  Doctor  Mitchell, — Just  after  getting  your  note 
I  was  put  to  bed  (where  I  ought  to  have  been  sooner, 
only  I  wouldn't),  and  found  myself,  almost  before  I 
knew  where  I  was,  under  the  charge  of  a  nurse  and 
with  two  doctors  in  consultation  over  me.  I  have  had 
a  hard  time  of  it,  and  was  much  pulled  down.  But  I 
had  a  very  present  help  in  the  constant  encouragement 
and  kindness  of  my  old  friend,  Dr.  Wyman,  who  even 
went  so  far  as  to  watch  three  nights  running  at  my 
bedside,  and  he  in  his  seventy-ninth  year.  For  a  fort 
night  now  I  have  been  mending,  and  have  had  no  re 
turn  of  acute  symptoms.  Yesterday  I  was  able  to 
dress  and  get  downstairs  for  the  first  time,  and  one 
of  the  first  things  I  had  on  my  mind  to  be  done  soon 
est  was  to  thank  you  for  your  kind  note,  and  to  say 
that  the  printing  of  the  poems  will  begin  soon — as  soon, 
I  believe,  as  I  shall  be  in  condition  to  read  proofs  with 
out  too  much  fatigue. 

With  affectionate  regards  to  Mrs.  Mitchell, 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


396  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1890 

TO   MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  April  9,  1890. 

Dear  Mrs.  Clifford, — It  was  very  good  of  you  to  be 
anxious  about  me,  and  I  wish  I  could  drop  in  to  ask 
you  for  a  cup  of  coffee  and  thank  you  in  person.  That 
would  be  delightful,  but  my  gratitude  must  find  vent 
in  ink,  which  sometimes  runs  cold  in  spite  of  us.  Pen 
in  hand,  one  hasn't  always  the  courage  of  one's  feel 
ings.  Spoken  words  may  be  as  warm  as  one  likes — 
there  is  always  air  enough  about  to  temper  them  to 
the  right  point.  .  .  . 

I  have  been  really  ill — six  weeks  on  my  back  in  bed, 
whither  I  refused  to  go  till  I  could  sit  up  no  longer.  I 
couldn't  conceive  of  anything  but  Death  strong  enough 
to  throw  me.  And  he  did  look  in  at  the  door  once, 
they  tell  me,  when  I  was  worst,  but  changed  his  mind 
and  took  his  ugly  mug  elsewhere. 

I  have  now  been  mending  for  nearly  three  weeks  and 
begin  once  more  to  have  legs  and  things.  But  I  had 
grown  very  weak  and  am  still  very  easily  tired.  I  have 
been  out  of  doors  thrice,  once  to  bask  for  an  hour  in 
the  sun  on  the  veranda,  twice  to  crawl  about  a  little — 
the  last  time  for  nearly  a  hundred  yards,  one  of  the 
triumphs  of  pedestrianism.  I  am  bidden  to  recline  as 
much  as  possible  and  am  on  my  back  now  in  a  chaise- 
longue.  The  doctors  say  I  must  on  no  account  vent 
ure  across  the  water  this  summer,  and  I  myself  haven't 
the  courage,  for  I  have  had  rather  a  sharp  warning  that 
I  am  over  forty — which  I  never  believed  before.  When 
you  see  me  again  I  shall  be  an  old  man — that  was  a 


1890]  TO   THOMAS    HUGHES  397 

slip,  I  meant  to  say  "  elderly/'  but  it  is  out  now  and  I 
must  make  the  best  of  it.  I  shall  be  little  better  than 
a  tame  cat.  You  will  stroke  me  in  a  pause  of  your 
talk  with  some  more  suitable  person,  and  I  shall  purr. 

I  couldn't  endure  my  deprivation  did  I  not  think 
my  renunciation  this  year  would  insure  my  coming  the 
next.  Only  by  that  time,  I  fear,  you  will  have  forgot 
ten  me  and  wonder  who  I  am  when  I  call.  Please 
don't  if  you  can  help  it.  And  yet,  if  you  have  to  make 
an  effort,  I  shouldn't  quite  like  that  either.  But  I 
mustn't  write  any  more,  for  my  head  begins  to  grum 
ble,  and  already  has  the  stitch  in  its  side.  Write  when 
you  happen  to  think  of  it. 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   THOMAS   HUGHES 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  April  20,  1890. 

Dear  Friend, — What  a  good  old-fashioned  Scripture- 
measure  letter  was  that  of  yours !  It  annihilated  penny- 
posts  and  telegraphs,  and  grew  to  a  quarto  sheet  as  I 
read  with  all  the  complicated  creases  of  its  folding. 
Pleasant  indeed  was  it  to  hear  such  good  news  from 
your  Deeside  hive,  which  through  the  boys  bids  fair  to 
be  a  true  officina  gentium,  peopling  our  Western  empti 
nesses  with  the  right  kind  of  stock. 

And  so  our  bright  and  busy-minded is  married, 

and  happily  too.  After  mature  deliberation  with  the 
help  of  a  pipe,  I  don't  think  her  husband's  not  smoking 
is  a  fatal  objection.  A would  tell  you  that  Napo- 


398  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1890 

leon  didn't,  and  Goethe  and  several  other  more  or  less 
successful  men.  I  consent,  therefore,  on  condition  that 
he  stuff  his  pockets  with  baccy  for  his  poor  parishioners 
when  he  goes  his  rounds  ;  they  know  how  good  it  is  and 
how  they  "puff  the  prostitute  (Fortune)  away,"  or  snuff 
up  oblivion  with  its  powdered  particles.  I  remember 
an  old  crone  whom  I  used  to  meet  every  Sunday  in 
Kensington  Gardens  when  she  had  her  outings  from  the 
almshouse  and  whom  I  kept  supplied  with  Maccaboy. 
I  think  I  made  her  perfectly  happy  for  a  week  and  on 
such  cheap  terms  as  make  me  blush.  She  was  a  dear 
old  thing,  and  used  to  make  me  prettier  curtsies  than  I 
saw  at  court.  Good  heavens,  of  what  uncostly  material 
is  our  earthly  happiness  composed — if  we  only  knew  it ! 
What  incomes  have  we  not  had  from  a  flower,  and  how 
unfailing  are  the  dividends  of  the  seasons ! 

I  can't  help  having  a  sneaking  sympathy  with  —  — ,  as 
I  think  I  once  wrote  to  Mrs.  Hughes.  Philosophy  and 
liberty  are  excellent  things,  but  I  made  the  discovery 
early  in  life  that  they  had  one  fault — you  can't  eat  'em, 
and  I  found  it  necessary  to  eat  something,  however  lit 
tle.  For  the  celibate  (if  his  father  have  a  balance  at  his 
banker's)  they  will  serve,  but  on  no  other  condition  and 

at  best  not  for  long.     tried  it,  and  do  you  know 

what  Mrs. once  said  when  somebody  asked  "  if  her 

husband  didn't  live  with  his  head  always  in  the  clouds?" 
"  Yes,  and  I'm  sometimes  tempted  to  wish  he'd  draw  his 
feet  up  after  it !"  But  his  were  the  dreams  of  middle-age 
and  senescence.  Those  of  youth  are  sometimes  the  best 
possession  of  our  old  age.  .  .  .  Association  with  so  gen 
erous  a  nature  as  Auberon  Herbert's  would  do  any  man 


1890]  TO    THOMAS    HUGHES  399 

good — unless,  to  be  sure,  they  give  up  for  the  moment 
making  themselves  good  to  quarrel  about  the  best  way  of 
making  other  people  so.  I  have  known  that  to  happen. 
But  never  mind ;  the  desire  to  sit  in  the  siege  perilleus 
is  a  good  thing  in  itself,  if  it  do  not  end  in  sitting  there 
to  watch  the  procession  of  life  go  by,  papa  meanwhile 
paying  a  smart  fee  for  young  Hopeful's  excellent  seat. 
Speaking  of  these  things  reminds  me  of  Howells's 
last  story,  "  A  Hazard  of  New  Fortunes " ;  have  you 
read  it  ?  If  not,  do,  for  I  am  sure  you  would  like  it.  A 
noble  sentiment  pervades  it,  and  it  made  my  inherited 
comforts  here  at  Elmwood  discomforting  to  me  in  a 
very  salutary  way.  I  felt  in  reading  some  parts  of  it 
as  I  used  when  the  slave  would  not  let  me  sleep.  I 
don't  see  my  way  out  of  the  labyrinth  except  with 
the  clue  of  co-operation,  and  I  am  not  sure  even  of 
that  with  over-population  looming  in  the  near  distance. 
I  wouldn't  live  in  any  of  the  Socialist  or  Communist 
worlds  into  the  plans  of  which  I  have  looked,  for  I 
should  be  bored  to  death  by  the  everlasting  Dutch 
landscape.  Nothing  but  the  guillotine  will  ever  make 
men  equal  on  compulsion,  and  even  then  they  will  leap 
up  again  in  some  other  world  to  begin  again  on  the 
old  terms.  You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  Carl  Schurz 
(a  good  judge),  who  had  several  talks  with  the  new  em 
peror  both  as  crown  prince  and  after,  thinks  that  he  is 
intelligent,  means  business,  and  knows  what  he  is  about. 
As  emperor  he  has  done  away  with  some  of  the  old 
fusses  and  feathers.  Once  he  sent  for  Schurz,  who  was 
ushered  at  once  into  the  cabinet  of  the  emperor,  with 
whom  he  was  left  alone,  and  who  pushed  an  easy- 


400  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1890 

chair  towards  the  fire  for  him,  seating  himself  on  a 
hard  stool.  Bismarck,  by  the  way,  said  a  good  thing 
to  Schurz  with  which  I  am  growing  into  sympathy — "  I 
am  beginning  to  think  that  the  best  half  of  life  is  be- 
fore  seventy." 

I  am  glad  to  be  remembered  by  your  fair  neighbors, 
and  wish  my  image  in  their  minds  could,  in  the  nature 
of  things,  be  as  charming  as  theirs  in  mine.  Tell  them 
that  my  power  of  seeing  faces  with  my  eyes  shut  is  a 
great  blessing  to  me,  since  it  enables  me  to  see  two 
such  (let  their  glasses  fill  up  the  blank)  ones  whenever  I 
like.  I  have  just  taken  a  look  at  them.  Love  to  Mrs. 
Hughes.  Thanks  for  her  kind  note. 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

I  am  still  doing  well,  but  have  to  be  very  careful. 
The  doctor  won't  hear  of  my  going  abroad  this  year. 
Alas! 

TO   LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Elm  wood,  April  21,  1890. 

Dear  Leslie, — I  have  just  got  your  letter  and  write 
to  say  that  your  coming  would  be  a  great  joy  to  many, 
and  above  all  to  me.  But  what  I  wish  to  urge  is  that, 
if  you  can  come,  I  hope  you  will  come  as  early  as  you 
can,  because  everybody  here,  except  me,  runs  away  in 
summer,  and  there  are  a  few  whom  I  should  like  you 
to  see  and  who  would  like  to  see  you.  Norton's  going 
would  make  no  odds,  because  you  would  seek  him  at 
Ashfield,  though  I  shall  keep  you  as  long  as  I  can. 


1890]  TO    MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD  401 

I  remember  well  our  parting  at  the  corner  of  my  lane, 
and  how  strangely  moved  I  was.  It  has  mingled  with 
and  distinguished  my  affection  for  you,  and  I  shall  for 
get  it  only  when  I  forget  everything. 

I  sha'n't  be  able  to  walk  with  you,  but,  by  the  time 
you  get  here,  I  suppose  I  shall  be  allowed  to  drive, 
and  we  can  see  Beaver  Brook  and  the  oaks  again  to 
gether.  Wellington  Hill  (where  you  started  a  fox)  I 
could  not  attempt. 

You  must  come.  It  will  do  you  good  and  me  too. 
By  the  way,  what  do  you  think  was  the  first  [book]  I 
chose  to  entertain  me  after  I  got  downstairs?  Your 
"  History  of  Thought  in  the  Eighteenth  Century."  I 
read  it  over  again  with  unqualified  satisfaction.  More 
love  to  Julia  and  to  the  weans.  I  am  tired. 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   MRS.  W.  K.  CLIFFORD 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  April  27,  1890. 

Dear  Mrs.  Clifford, — It  is  the  evening  of  a  drizzly 
Sunday.  I  have  just  been  helping  my  second  grandson 
in  his  Greek  exercise  (with  an  uneasy  apprehension 
that  he  would  find  out  he  was  a  better  Grecian  than 
I),  and  now  lay  down  "  Redgauntlet,"  in  which  I  am 
deeply  interested,  in  order,  so  far  as  a  letter  may,  to 
maintain  your  interest  in  me.  .  .  . 

Yes,  I  have  read  Kipling's  stories,  and  with  real  pleas 
ure.  I  read  them  while  I  was  still  in  bed  and  under 
the  spell  of  opium,  and  so  was  adopted  into  their  Orien- 
II.— 26 


4O2  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1890 

talism.  Some  of  his  verses,  too,  I  liked,  especially  the 
Omar  Khayamish  at  the  head  of  the  last  chapter.  I 
find  something  startlingly  vernacular  in  Oriental  poe 
try  (which  I  know  only  through  translations,  mainly 
German),  as  if  I  had  lived  some  former  and  forgotten 
life  in  the  East.  How  potent  is  this  Oriental  blood — 
in  Napoleon,  in  Goethe,  in  Heine,  Victor  Hugo,  in 
Browning,  to  go  no  further  back!  In  Montaigne  prob 
ably  ;  in  Dante  possibly.  I  am  not  so  sure  that  I  like 
the  West-Oestliche  as  Goethe  exemplified  it.  But  I  have 
hopes  of  the  volume  Mr.  Kipling  seems  to  promise  us 
in  that  last  chapter,  but  I  hope  he  will  drop  his  Hin- 
dostanee  pedantry.  'Tis  as  bad  as  Mrs.  Gore's  French 
used  to  be.  Be  truer  to  your  sex,  my  dear.  He  is  not 
Burne-Jones's  nephew,  but  Mrs.  Burne-Jones's,  and  his 
book  constantly  reminded  me  of  Phil.  Burne-Jones,  by 
whom  I  set  great  store.  How  good  he  was  to  the  chil 
dren  when  I  stayed  with  him  at  Talland  House!  I 
adore  that  kind  of  goodness  afar  off,  for  I  haven't  it  my 
self.  They  tell  me  I  had  it  once,  and  perhaps  I  shall 
get  it  again  before  long  in  my  second  childhood. 

I  am  doing  well,  thank  you.  When  I  get  up  in  the 
morning  I  feel  about  thirty,  but  when  I  go  upstairs  to 
bed  I  seem  to  carry  a  Nestorian  weight  of  years.  This 
I  shall  get  over  when  I  am  allowed  to  take  exercise. 
What  I  can't  get  over  yet  is  apprehension.  My  mal 
ady  came  upon  me  so  without  warning  that  I  live  in 
hourly  dread  of  ambushes.  Still,  I  should  like  to  drop 
in  at  26  Colville  Road  and  fence  with  you  a  little.  I 
don't  think  you  would  find  much  difference.  Good-by  ; 
write  when  you  remember  me.  No,  not  that  exactly, 


1890]  TO   THE   MISSES    LAWRENCE  403 

but  oftener.  Is  that  a  bull?  I  don't  mind  if  it  bring 
me  Europa.  Our  Spring  is  just  beginning,  and  the 
buds  are  peeping  to  see  if  it  be  really  she  at  last.  I 
am  encouraged  by  finding  that  my  sap  still  stirs  with 
the  rest.  There  must  be  some  life  in  my  roots  yet. 
Give  my  love  to  the  two  girls. 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO  THE   MISSES   LAWRENCE 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  May  3,  1890. 

.  .  .  Septuagenarians  are  allowed  to  talk  about  them 
selves,  a  license,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  which  they  are 
beginning  to  abuse,  if  one  may  judge  by  the  number 
of  autobiographies,  reminiscences,  and  things  we  have 
had  of  late.  It  must  have  been  through  a  well-founded 
dread  of  such  garrulities  that  the  ancient  Scythians 
put  an  end  to  their  old  people  before  these  had  a 
chance  to  become  public  nuisances.  It  is  whispered 
that  they  feasted  on  them  afterwards,  but  this  is  doubt 
ful.  What  is  certain  is,  that  no  toughness  of  digestion 
would  have  been  competent  to  what  their  memoirs 
would  probably  have  turned  out  to  be. 

As  I  say,  I  have  no  news  because  I  am  not  yet  per 
mitted  to  go  about  and  gather  the  stale  stuff  we  call 
so.  My  "Court  Journal"  is  a  record  of  the  comings 
and  goings  of  birds  and  blossoms.  My  births,  deaths, 
and  marriages  are  new  moons,  sunsets,  and  the  pairing 
of  innocent  winged  creatures.  Two  days  ago  I  was 
much  excited  by  the  first  appearance  of  a  summer 


404  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1890 

yellow-bird,  one  of  the  most  graceful  of  our  songsters. 
Yesterday  a  sparrow-hawk  perched  in  one  of  my  trees, 
and  a  bird  with  a  gleaming  white  waistcoat,  that  made 
him  twice  as  big  as  he  really  was,  and  a  purple  necktie. 
Have  you  never  seen  people  whose  costume  lent  them 
a  fictitious  greatness?  I  will  not  go  higher  than  a  lord 
mayor  for  an  example.  You  see  that  morals  flit  about 
among  my  boughs  as  thick  as  sparrows.  And,  by  the 
way,  the  English  sparrows  which  we  carefully  imported 
are  grown  as  great  a  nuisance  as  rabbits  in  Australia. 
They  are  beyond  measure  impudent.  If  you  take  off 
your  hat  to  wipe  your  brow,  they  have  built  a  nest  in 
it  before  you  are  ready  to  put  it  on  again,  and  then 
dispute  possession  with  you.  They  seize  all  unoccu 
pied  territory,  as  I  won't  say  who  sets  them  the  exam 
ple  of  doing.  They  build  in  a  twinkling  half  a  dozen 
nests  over  one's  front  door,  and  if  one  evict  them  and 
tear  down  their  homesteads  as  thoroughly  as  if  they 
were  Irish  tenants,  the  nests  are  there  again  next  day  with 
young  in  them,  which  the  birds  borrow  as  beggars  do  to 
excite  compassion.  If  they  let  fall  nothing  worse  than 
oysters  (or  whatever  it  was  that  the  osprey  dropt  on  the 
bald  pate  of  ^Eschylus),  one  wouldn't  mind.  They 
bully  our  native  birds  out  of  their  lives,  as  British 
officials  used  to  bully  us  poor  provincials  in  the  good 
old  times.  What  is  there  in  your  island  —  but  no, 
I  won't  generalize  on  so  narrow  a  foundation,  as  if  I 
were  an  English  traveller  in  America.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  rather  like  them,  and  they  amuse  me  immense 
ly,  the  cock-birds  are  such  insufferable  coxcombs.  In 
our  sunny  and  clear  air  they  are  by  no  means  the  chim- 


1890]  TO    MRS.  LESLIE   STEPHEN  405 

ney-sweep-looking   creatures  you    are    familiar  with  in 
London,  but  have  almost  a  brilliant  plumage. 

So  you  have  been  at  Avignon  (Babylon)  and  Aries  (did 
you  observe  how  pretty  the  women  are?)  and  Orange 
(did  you  think  of  Guillaume  au  Court  Nez?)  and  the 
Pont  du  Gard.  But  you  say  nothing  of  Vaucluse  and 
its  living  waters,  one  of  the  most  beautiful  things  I  ever 
saw,  though  a  little  brackish  with  Petrarch's  tears — 
not  very,  for  they  had  more  sugar  than  salt  in  them.  I 
first  saw  the  Pont  du  Gard  in  '52,  and  next  in  '72.  The 
same  man  was  in  charge  and  we  made  a  laughing  bar 
gain  that  I  should  come  again  after  another  score  of 
years.  And  I  am  already  within  two  years  of  my  tryst. 
You  never  saw  in  the  south  of  France  a  day  more 
lovely  than  this.  One  must  make  a  cloud  in  one's  own 
mind  (as  modern  poets  do)  if  one  would  have  a  cloud, 
and  the  breeze  is  like  the  waft  of  one's  mistress's  fan, 
cooling  and  fragrant  at  once.  Time  leans  on  his  scythe 
and  rests.  .  .  . 

TO   MRS.  LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Elmwood,  May  4,  1890. 

.  .  .  We  are  beginning  to  look  very  pretty  here  in 
our  new  spring  dresses,  and  all  my  pear-trees  with  fresh 
flowers  in  their  bonnets.  But,  alas,  how  my  trees  and 
shrubs  have  pined  for  me  in  my  absence.  And  they 
have  been  shamefully  broken,  too.  For  my  part,  I  feel 
the  pain  in  the  limb  of  a  tree  as. in  one  of  my  own. 
But  I  am  sure  they  all  know  me,  and  will  take  heart 
again  now  that  I  am  come  back.  They  are  not  quite 
reconciled  with  me  yet,  and  I  wish  I  could  show  you 


406  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1890 

to  them  as  one  of  the  arguments  for  my  absence.    That 
would  bring  them  all  round. 

The  birds  are  here  again  in  reasonable  numbers,  but 
my  orioles  not  yet.  They  build  a  pendulous  nest,  and 
so  flash  in  the  sun  that  our  literal  rustics  call  them  fire 
hang-birds.  .  .  . 


TO   MISS   KATE   FIELD 

Cambridge,  May  15,  1890. 

Dear  Miss  Field, — I  have  had  too  long  an  experience 
of  the  providential  thickness  of  the  human  skull,  as  well 
as  of  the  eventual  success  of  all  reasonable  reforms,  to 
be  discouraged  by  the  temporary  defeat  of  any  measure 
which  I  believe  to  be  sound.  I  say  "  providential  "  be 
cause  the  world  is  thereby  saved  many  a  rash  experi 
ment  in  specious  legislation.  Were  it  otherwise,  the 
Huon's  horn  of  inconsiderate  enthusiasm  would  lead 
us  a  pretty  dance  among  the  briers.  Unfortunately 
there  is,  as  usual,  an  exception  to  this  general  rule,  for 
the  sutures  of  the  political  cranium  are  so  loosely  knit 
as  to  leave  a  crevice  through  which  considerations  of 
ephemeral  expediency  find  a  too  easy  entrance.  Such 
considerations,  it  should  always  be  remembered,  are 
most  liable  to  disastrous  recoil. 

I  grant  that  our  hope  has  been  long-drawn-out,  but 
since  material  for  it  (as  for  every  hope  that  has  a  moral 
base)  has  been  constantly  supplied,  it  has  never  become 
too  attenuated  to  bear  the  strain  put  upon  it.  It  is  sev 
enty-one  years  since  Irving  wrote :  "  You  observe  that 
the  public  complain  of  the  price  of  my  work ;  this  is  the 


1 890]  TO   MISS    KATE    FIELD  407 

disadvantage  of  coming  in  competition  with  republished 
English  works  for  which  the  publishers  have  not  to  pay 
anything  to  the  authors.  If  the  American  public  wish 
to  have  a  literature  of  their  own,  they  must  consent  to 
pay  for  the  support  of  authors." 

(And  why  not,  I  may  add,  if  we  consent  to  pay  Sena 
tor  Jones  for  the  support  of  a  silver  mine  ?) 

It  is  fifty  years  since  Irving  wrote:  "  How  much  this 
growing  literature  may  be  retarded  by  the  present  state 
of  our  copyright  law  I  had  recently  an  instance  in  the 
cavalier  treatment  of  a  work  of  merit,  written  by  an 
American  who  had  not  yet  established  a  commanding 
name  in  the  literary  market.  I  undertook  as  a  friend 
to  dispose  of  it  for  him,  but  found  it  impossible  to  get 
an  offer  from  any  of  our  principal  publishers.  They 
even  declined  to  publish  it  at  the  author's  cost,  alleging 
that  it  was  not  worth  their  while  to  trouble  themselves 
about  native  works  of  doubtful  success,  while  they 
could  pick  and  choose  among  the  successful  works  daily 
poured  out  by  the  British  press,  for  which  they  had 
nothing  to  pay  for  copyright" 

This  was  in  1840,  and  in  the  same  year  Mr.  Clay's 
bill  was  defeated.  We  have  been  fighting  for  the  same 
cause  with  the  same  weapons  ever  since,  and  apparently 
with  the  same  result. 

But  for  all  that  we  have  made  progress.  We  have 
secured  public  discussion,  and  a  righteous  cause  which 
has  done  that  has  got  the  weather  gauge  of  its  adver 
sary.  I  am  too  old  to  be  persuaded  by  any  appear 
ances,  however  specious,  that  Truth  has  lost  or  can  lose 
a  whit  of  that  divine  quality  which  gives  her  immortal 


408  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1890 

advantage  over  Error.  The  adversary  has  cunningly 
intrenched  himself  in  the  argument  that  there  can  be 
no  such  thing  as  property  in  an  idea,  and  I  grant  that 
this  is  a  fallacy  of  which  it  is  hard  to  disabuse  the 
minds  of  otherwise  intelligent  men.  But  it  is  in  the 
form  given  to  an  idea  by  a  man  of  genius,  and  in  this 
only,  that  we  assert  a  right  of  property  to  have  been 
created.  The  founders  of  our  republic  tacitly  admitted 
this  right  when  they  classed  the  law  of  copyright  with 
that  of  patents.  I  have  known  very  honest  men  who 
denied  the  public  expediency  of  such  a  right  in  both 
cases,  but  I  cannot  understand  either  the  logic  or  the 
probity  of  those  who  admit  the  one  and  deny  the  other. 
This  right  is  visible  and  palpable  in  a  machine,  invisible 
and  impalpable  in  a  book,  and  for  this  very  reason  the 
law  should  be  more  assiduous  to  protect  it  in  the  latter 
case,  as  being  the  weaker. 

But,  after  all,  every  species  of  property  is  the  artifi 
cial  creature  of  law,  and  the  true  question  is  whether, 
if  such  property  in  books  did  not  exist,  it  would  be 
wise  in  our  own  interest  to  create  it.  The  inventions 
'of  Whitney,  of  Fulton,  and  of  Morse  added  enormously 
to  the  wealth  of  the  nation.  Have  not  those  of  Ed 
wards  and  Irving  and  Cooper  and  Emerson  and  Haw 
thorne  and  Longfellow  (to  speak  only  of  the  dead) 
added  also  to  that  wealth  and  in  a  nobler  kind?  Or  is 
not  moral  credit,  then,  worth  something  too  ?  Is  it  not, 
indeed,  the  foundation  on  which  financial  credit  is  built 
and  most  securely  rests  ? 

The  foreign  right  to  property  of  this  description 
stands  on  precisely  the  same  footing  with  the  domes- 


1890]  TO   MISS   KATE   FIELD  409 

tic  right,  and  the  moral  wrong  of  stealing  either  is 
equally  great.  But  literary  property  is  at  a  disadvan 
tage  because  it  is  not  open,  gross,  and  palpable,  and 
therefore  the  wrongful  appropriation  of  it  touches  the 
public  conscience  more  faintly.  In  ordinary  cases  it  is 
the  thief,  but  in  this  case  the  thing  stolen,  that  is  invisi 
ble.  To  steal  is  no  doubt  more  immediately  profitable 
than  acquisition  by  the  more  tedious  methods  of  hon 
esty,  but  is  apt  to  prove  more  costly  in  the  long  run. 
How  costly  our  own  experiment  in  larceny  has  been 
those  only  know  who  have  studied  the  rise  and  prog 
ress  of  our  literature,  which  has  been  forced  to  grow  as 
virtue  is  said  to  do — in  spite  of  the  weight  laid  upon  it. 

But  even  though  this  particular  form  of  dishonesty 
against  which  we  are  contending  were  to  be  always 
and  everywhere  commercially  profitable,  I  think  that 
the  American  people  is  so  honest  that  it  may  be  made 
to  see  that  a  profit  allowed  to  be  legitimate  by  us 
alone  among  civilized  nations — a  profit,  too,  which  goes 
wholly  into  the  pockets  of  a  few  unscrupulous  men — 
must  have  something  queer  about  it,  something  which 
even  a  country  so  rich  as  ours  cannot  afford. 

I  have  lived  to  see  more  than  one  successful  appeal 
from  the  unreason  of  the  people's  representatives  to 
the  reason  of  the  people  themselves.  I  am,  therefore, 
not  to  be  tired  with  waiting.  It  is  wearisome  to  our 
selves  and  to  others  also  to  go  on  repeating  the  argu 
ments  we  have  been  using  for  these  forty  years  and 
which  to  us  seem  so  self-evident,  but  I  think  it  is  true 
that  no  reformer  has  ever  gained  his  end  who  had  not 
first  made  himself  an  intolerable  bore  to  the  vast  ma- 


410  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1890 

jority  of  his  kind.  I  have  done  my  share  in  my  time 
to  help  forward  such  triumphs  of  tediousness,  but  you 
will  not  thank  me  for  essaying  it  again  in  the  sprightly 
columns  of  your  paper.* 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   THE   MISSES   LAWRENCE 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  July  6,  1890. 

Dear  Dual-mood, — It  is  Sunday  morning  and  as  fair 
as  George  Herbert's,  a  happy  bridal  of  Earth  and  Sky 
presaging  a  long  felicity  of  married  days — all  honeymoon 
that  isn't  sunshine.  Yet  I  can't  help  hoping  that  some 
spiteful  fairy  has  hidden  a  seed  of  storm  somewhere 
in  the  trousseau,  for  we  have  had  no  rain  these  three 
weeks,  and  our  turf  is  beginning  to  show  symptoms  of 
jaundice.  The  partiality  of  the  solar  system  (due,  no 
doubt,  to  the  insular  prejudices  of  Sir  Isaac  Newton) 
gives  you  a  five  hours'  start  of  us ;  so  I  suppose  you  have 
both  been  to  church  by  this  time,  and  have  put  away 
your  prayer-books  with  a  comfortable  feeling  that  you 
have  played  your  parts  in  maintaining  the  equilibrium 
of  the  British  Constitution  and  have  done  with  religion 
for  a  week.  With  us  there  has  been  a  divorce  of  Church 
and  State,  and  the  children  are  given  over  to  their  own 
guidance. 

Why  must  you  be  so  cruel  as  to  flout  me  with  the 
nightingale  when  you  knew  (or  was  it  because  you  knew?) 
we  hadn't  him  ?  I  am  not  sure  we  would  have  him  if 

*  This  letter  was  published  in  Kate  Field's  Washington. 


1890]  TO    THE   MISSES   LAWRENCE  411 

we  could,  for,  in  spite  of  the  poets,  who  naturally  try  to 
make  the  best  of  him,  he  has  a  bad  character  among 
you  as  a  somnifuge,  and  I  have  heard  no  music  so  ill- 
spoken  of  as  his  save  only  that  of  the  barrel-organ. 
Even  his  flatterers  seem  savagely  happy  in  thinking 
that  he  sings  with  his  breast  against  a  thorn  and  suffers 
some  proportion,  inadequate  though  it  be,  of  the  mis 
ery  he  inflicts.  In  any  case  you  need  not  give  your 
self  airs,  for  our  nights  will  never  want  for  music  while 
we  have  the  mosquito.  What  is  your  nightingale  to 
him,  whether  for  assiduous  song  or  as  a  prophylactic 
against  inordinate  and  untimely  slumber?  He  would 
have  prevented  the  catastrophe  of  the  Foolish  Virgins 
— not  that  I  liken  you  to  those — God  forbid  !  On  sec 
ond  thoughts  I  am  not  sure  that  I  don't,  after  all,  for 
I  have  been  sometimes  tempted  to  think  that  I  liked 
them  better  than  the  wise.  Tis  a  question  of  gold 
spectacles. 

I  have  no  news  except  that  my  smoke-trees  have 
vapored  into  rosy  clouds  that  carry  on  the  tradition 
of  sunrise  all  through  the  day  to  the  sunset.  Sweet- 
peas,  too,  are  in  blossom,  and  honeysuckle,  but,  alas, 
I  haven't  seen  a  humming-bird  this  summer.  I  never 
before  knew  a  summer  without  them. 

Your  London  world  seems  a  great  way  off,  for  I  am 
gone  back  to  my  old  books,  and  live  chiefly  two  or 
three  centuries  ago,  sometimes  much  farther  back.  I 
find  no  nicer  creatures  than  you  there. 

My  grandchildren  grow  apace  and  my  eldest  grand 
son  goes  to  college  this  year.  My  contemporaries  drop 
faster  and  faster  about  me,  but  one  gets  used  to  it  as 


412  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1890 

the  leaves  to  the  falling  of  their  fellows  and  playmates 
in  autumn.  I  am  not  conscious  yet  of  any  loosening 
of  my  stem.  But  who  ever  is  ? 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


TO   C.  E.  NORTON 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Aug.  23, 1890. 

.  o  .  Tied  by  the  leg  as  I  am,  I  should  envy  the  spry- 
ness  with  which  you  are  skipping  over  the  hills  and 
seeing  them  golden  with  the  June  grass — as  good  as 
heather  in  its  way.  But  I  am  by  nature  so  stolidly 
content  with  seeing  the  things  I  have  seen  all  my  life, 
and  find  such  a  comforting  sympathy  in  them,  that  I 
am  on  the  whole  satisfied  to  sit  on  the  veranda  and 
enjoy  a  vegetative  life  with  my  trees,  with  Panks  and 
Gobble  for  company.  Gobble  is  getting  to  be  as  inter 
esting  a  little  soul — for  I  am  sure  he  has  one — as  I 
ever  saw,  and  the  patience  of  his  father  with  him,  let 
ting  him  bite  his  ears,  tail,  legs,  or  what  not,  just  as  he 
has  composed  himself  for  a  nap,  is  worth  many  a  ser 
mon  to  me. 

The  newspapers  haven't  told  you  our  most  impor 
tant  event.  The  crickets  have  come,  and  are  trilling 
away,  each  on  his  own  hook  and  without  unison,  like 
an  orchestra  tuning  their  fiddles.  This  means  that  the 
curtain  is  going  to  rise  for  the  entry  of  autumn.  I 
find  no  sadness  in  it — cheer  rather.  It  is  my  season 
of  the  year  now,  and  I  heard  my  crickets  long  ago, 
only  they  creak  in  the  joints  instead  of  the  grass. 


1 890]  TO   C.  E.  NORTON  413 

I  have  finished  my  "  Areopagitica  "  *  business  after  a 
fashion,  that  is,  I  sent  it  off  yesterday,  and  am  now 
beginning  to  think  of  what  I  might  have  said  and 
meant  to  say.  This  is  an  old  phenomenon,  but  I  sup 
pose  it  only  means  that  the  Muse  is  a  woman  and 
saves  all  she  wishes  to  say  for  a  postscript. 

Anyhow,  I  was  well  tired  of  the  thing  (it  has  two 
clever  things  in  it),  and  so  after  posting  it  I  gave  my 
self  a  good  bath  in  Calderon.  He  always  entertains 
and  absorbs  me  after  everybody  else  has  given  it  up. 
I  am  quite  conscious  how  much  sameness  there  is  in 
him,  and  yet  there  is  endless  variety  too,  and  if  his 
horizon  be  not  of  the  widest,  heat-lightnings  of  fancy 
are  forever  winking  round  the  edges  of  it.  Partly,  per 
haps,  the  charm  is  in  the  language  and  the  verse,  which 
slips  along  thoughtless  as  a  brook.  There  are  greater 
poets,  but  none  so  constantly  delightful.  His  mind  is 
a  kaleidoscope,  at  every  turn  making  a  new  image  of 
the  same  bits  of  colored  glass — cheap  material  enough, 
but  who  cares?  Not  so  cheap  either  when  one  comes 
to  think  of  it,  for  these  are  fragments  from  painted 
windows,  deepened  in  hue  with  incense  fumes  and 
thrilled  through  and  through  with  organ  and  choir. 
Well,  it  is  a  comfort  that  there  used  to  be  poets,  at 
any  rate,  only  it  is  despair  to  see  how  easily  they  did  it ! 

Pongame  el  rucgo  a  los  pies  de  Peter's  Hill,  and  tell 
the  park-like  trees  there  that  I  shall  never  cease  to 
love  them.  And  take  off  your  hat  for  me  to  Monad- 

*  An  Introduction  to  an  edition  of  the  "Areopagitica,"  printed 
by  the  Grolier  Club,  of  New  York,  in  facsimile  of  the  first  edi 
tion. 


414  LETTERS    OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1890 

nock,  the  most  high-bred  of  our  mountains.  There 
must  be  something  rarely  fine  in  the  Ashfield  land 
scape,  it  has  stamped  itself  so  on  my  memory.  I  see 
it  more  clearly  than  many  more  familiar. 

Dr.  Wyman  has  just  been  in,  and  still  forbids  my 
walking.     I  grin  and  bear  it.  ... 


TO   MISS   E.  G.   NORTON 

Elm  wood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  ytember  7,  1890. 

Dear  Lily, — Do  you  observe  my  date?  You  would 
infer  wonders  from  it  as  from  a  seventh  son's  seventh 
son.  But  I  pray  you  in  advance  to  do  nothing  of  the 
kind,  for  my  letter  is  predestined  to  dulness.  And  it  is 
this  consciousness,  not  infidelity,  that  has  kept  me  si 
lent  so  long  with  your  dear  letter  on  my  table  and  on 
my  conscience  too.  I  have  been  dronish  all  summer. 
I  don't  mean  lazy,  but  derive  my  adjective  rather  from 
the  drone  of  a  bagpipe,  which  is  as  oppressive  to  every 
body  else  as  it  seems  inexhaustibly  delightful  to  the 
manipulator  of  it.  I  am  struck,  on  after-thought,  with 
the  infelicity  of  my  comparison,  for  I  am  not  eager  to 
bestow  myself  on  the  rest  of  mankind.  Much  rather 
am  I  incommunicable  as  a  jelly-fish  on  the  sands — did 
you  ever  essay  conversation  with  one?  Southampton 
Water  would  give  you  a  chance.  I  fancy  you  making 
the  experiment  and  whisking  away  with  a  pretty  flutter 
of  scorn  in  your  skirts  and  a  "  Good-by,  Uncle  James;  I 
give  you  up  as  a  bad  job !" 

What  would  you  have?  The  birds  have  ceased  to 
sing,  and  I  drag  out  my  long  days  on  the  veranda  with 


1890]  TO   MISS   E.  G.   NORTON  415 

no  company  but  that  of  Panks  (my  dog),  who  gener 
ously  shares  his  dumbness  with  me  and  looks  up  at  me 
as  who  should  say,  "You  are  become  unspeakable  as 
one  of  us,  poor  old  fellow ;  I  pity  you  !" 

I  said  the  birds  had  ceased,  but  I  was  wrong.  The 
screech-owl  is  in  season,  and  every  night  yodels  mourn 
fully  about  the  house  like  a  banshee.  How  they  used 
to  scare  me  when  I  was  a  boy !  And  even  now  I  don't 
feel  quite  secure  in  the  silenter  watches  of  the  night. 
But  the  crickets  have  come,  too,  and  are  cheerful 
enough  in  their  monotonous  way.  I  venture  to  think 
they  have  told  me  the  same  thing  before.  But  that 
makes  them  all  the  more  like  human  society. 

I  haven't  the  least  notion  where  you  are,  and  have 
to  invent  epicycles  for  you,  as  old  astronomers  for  the 
moon,  to  account  for  your  aberrations  and  fix  you  for 
a  moment  in  the  right  spot  for  my  fancy.  So  I  shall 
suppose  you  at  Basset,  which  must  be  delightful  at  this 
season,  if  Aquarius  have  set  his  watering-pot  in  the 
corner  at  last.  Are  the  robins  and  finches  cheery  in 
the  garden?  Our  ancestors  brought  hither  with  them 
laws,  language,  and  other  engines  of  oppression;  why 
did  they  leave  those  behind?  Yet  we  are  not  wholly 
comfortless.  A  robin  forgot  himself  yesterday  and  sang 
once,  but  stopped  short  with  a  twinge  of  conscience, 
like  a  child  that  catches  itself  feeling  happy  in  church. 
Meanwhile  we  are  having  pears. 

Your  latest  sensation  is  Newman's  death.  A  beauti 
ful  old  man,  as  I  remember  him,  but  surely  a  futile  life 
if  ever  there  was  one,  trying  to  make  a  past  unreality 
supply  the  place  of  a  present  one  that  was  becoming 


416  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1890 

past,  and  forgetting  that  God  is  always  "  I  am,"  never 
"  I  was."  He  will  be  remembered  chiefly  by  his  "Lead, 
kindly  light,"  which  is  as  far  from  poetry  as  I  hope 
most  hymns  are  from  the  ear  to  which  they  were  ad 
dressed.  Else  would  it  be  shut  to  all  our  petitions.  .  .  . 

Your  affectionate 

UNCLE  JAMES. 

TO   S.  WEIR   MITCHELL 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Sept.  24,  1890. 

Dear  Mitchell, — The  other  day  I  wrote  to  my  pub 
lishers  asking  them  to  send  you  a  copy  of  my  new 
edition  Hommage  d'Auteur.  They  replied  that  you 
were  already  a  subscriber  for  a  large-paper  copy,  an 
Edition  de  looks.  This  is  a  cross  too  heavy  for  my 
strength,  and  accordingly  I  beg  that  you  will  permit 
your  subscription  to  be  transferred  to  me  and  accept 
the  copy,  not  as  a  requital  for  many  obligations,  but  as 
a  record  of  my  affection  and  respect. 

I  am  elated  by  the  chance  to  step  into  your  shoes, 
which,  under  any  other  circumstances,  would  be  a  world 
too  wide  for  me,  but  under  these  will  not  wobble  un 
pleasantly.  You  must  not  deny  me  this ;  indeed,  I  shall 
so  far  presume  upon  your  friendship  as  to  direct  Messrs. 
Houghton  &  Mifflin  accordingly. 

I  cannot  do  much,  for  I  get  more  easily  tired  than 
before  my  illness.  I  had  a  slight  relapse  in  the  latter 
part  of  June,  and  this  was  in  one  sense  an  encourage 
ment,  for  it  was  soon  over  and  without  any  of  the 
anguish  I  had  before.  But  it  has  left  me  with  an  irk- 


1890]  TO   THOMAS   HUGHES  417 

some  feeling  that  my  malady  may  be  lying  in  wait  for 
me  around  the  next  corner,  and  floor  me  again  at  any 
moment.  This  is  not  a  frame  of  mind  auspicious  for 
any  continuous  or  fruitful  work. 

I  beg  you  to  make  my  affectionate  regards  accepta 
ble  to  Mrs.  Mitchell,  and  remain 

Always  faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


TO   THOMAS   HUGHES 

Elm  wood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Oct.  i,  1890. 

My  dear  old  Friend,  —  With  the  cooler  weather  of 
autumn  (and  it  is  the  most  fountain-of-youthy  I  know 
of)  I  am  beginning  to  feel  like  my  old,  or  rather  my 
young,  self  again.  When  you  write  next  it  must  be  in 
words  of  one  syllable,  and  with  everything  adapted  to 
the  apprehension  of  a  boy.  Since  my  illness  I  have 
been  under  the  weather,  but  a  week  ago  this  meteoro 
logical  incubus  was  suddenly  lifted  away  and  life  was 
lightsome  again. 

I  wish  you  could  share  my  day  with  me.  It  is  sim 
ply  what  a  day  should  be  that  has  a  good  conscience — 
nothing  left  in  it  but  a  well-manner'd  sunshine  and  the 
mere  pleasure  of  being.  I  can't  bear  to  think  that  our 
politicians  should  have  any  share  in  it.  It  was  meant 
for  better  men.  However,  it  may  make  them  think 
there  is  a  God  in  heaven,  and  that  he  visits  earth  some 
times  in  his  mercy. 

This  morning  I  read  that  the  Tariff  Bill  is  passed — 
the  first  experiment  a  really  intelligent  people  have 
II.— 27 


418  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1890 

ever  tried  to  make  one  blade  of  grass  grow  where  two 
grew  before,  by  means  of  legislation.  A  reaction  is 
sure  to  follow,  and  what  I  fear  is,  that  their  excesses 
may  make  it  so  sudden  as  to  be  calamitous.  It  is  a 
comfort  to  think  that  nations,  if  they  have  any  stuff  in 
them,  survive  even  folly. 

I  have  felt  so  sluggish  and  unwieldy  this  summer  that 
I  have  found  it  hard  to  write  even  a  letter,  and  all  that 
I  have  done  is  a  short  preface  to  an  exact  reprint  of  the 
first  edition  of  Milton's  "  Areopagitica."  It  will  be  a 
pretty  book,  and  I  shall  send  you  a  copy.  If  the  pref 
ace  do  not  attract  you,  there  is  good  pasture  in  the 
text.  It  is  published  by  a  club  of  book-and-binding 
lovers — the  Grolier. 

My  eldest  grandson  enters  college  this  year,  a  shock 
ing  anachronism,  for  I  could  swear  I  wasn't  forty  this 
very  morning — not  a  day  older  for  love  or  money — and 
the  sun  shining  in  on  me  as  I  write  seems  to  say, 
"  Strike  off  another  [decade]  and  done  with  it."  The 
only  thing  that  makes  me  doubt  is  helping  Joe  with 
his  Greek.  I  seem  to  have  got  farther  away  from  it 
than  my  years  would  warrant.  And  the  absurd  quiddi 
ties  with  which  the  grammarians  have  made  the  lan 
guage  indigestible  nowadays!  If  the  Greeks  had  had 
to  think  of  all  these  things  when  they  were  writing, 
they  couldn't  have  managed  it  at  all.  .  .  . 

Why  did  Balfour  make  martyrs  of  all  those  fellows 
who  were  making  fools  of  themselves  to  his  advantage? 
But,  as  I  have  always  said,  "  the  stars  in  their  courses 
fight  against  you  in  the  Irish  question." 


1890]  TO   MRS.   LESLIE   STEPHEN  419 

TO   MRS.  LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Elmwood,  Oct.  7,  1890. 

...  A  cold  north-easter  is  blowing  and  drizzling  and 
whatever  else  the  D  —  1  prompts  it  to  do.  I  have 
just  touched  off  the  heap  of  wood  that  has  been  wait 
ing  in  the  chimney  all  summer,  and  it  is  blazing  and 
crackling  merrily.  I  put  under  a  modest  veil  of  French 
the  fact  that  aussi  j'ai  allume  ma  pipe,  and  there 
you  have  me.  ...  I  entirely  sympathize  with  you  in 
your  tenderness  about  Thoby,  for  I  have  a  grandson 
who  goes  off  to  a  boarding-school  to-morrow.  He 
doesn't  look  as  if  he  were  a  bit  sentimental,  but  his 
heart  is  so  full  that  it  spills  over  in  tears  at  the  least 
jar.  And  such  tears  !  as  big  as  those  of  Jacques's  stag  ! 
I  never  saw  any  with  so  much  water  in  them.  Whether 
the  salt  be  in  proportion  is  another  matter.  They  drop 
silently  upon  his  expansive  waistcoat  to  rebound  in 
spray.  They  are  of  the  Roman  fashion — they  could 
not  have  filled  their  lachrymatories  else.  And  Gobble, 
my  puppy,  whom  Leslie  will  remember,  was  he  not 
carried  away  howling  to  a  boarding-school  where  he  is 
to  be  taught  dogmatics !  Yes,  dear  friend,  I  weep  with 
you,  tear  for  tear.  They  are  grandfather's  tears,  to  be 
sure,  and  not  worth  so  much  as  a  mother's,  but  they 
will  serve  at  a  pinch.  I  continue  as  well  as  when  I 
wrote.  After  growing  younger  every  day  for  a  fort 
night,  I  have  resolved  to  draw  the  line  at  forty  and  in 
trench  me  there  for  the  rest  of  my  days.  'Tis  an  age 
that  does  not  carry  me  beyond  the  circle  of  a  woman's 
interest,  and  so  will  do  very  well.  You  won't  be  put- 


420  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1890 

ting  cushions  behind  me  or  tame-catting  me,  if  you 
please.  A  man  of  sense  ought  never  (ought  he  ?)  to 
get  a  hair's-breadth  beyond  fawty.  Shall  I  send  you 
my  photograph  ? 

Joe  has  just  come  in  with  his  Greek  lesson  for  to 
morrow,  so  if  I  get  a  little  higgledy-piggledy  you 
mustn't  mind.  When  he  finds  a  difficulty  he  consults 
the  oracle,  who  is  no  longer  so  glib  in  that  tongue  as  in 
that  of  Dodona,  and  cannot  like  that  save  his  credit  by 
an  amphibolous  answer.  (The  oracle  uses  that  adjec 
tive  with  design,  to  make  you  think  him  not  quite  so 
shady  in  his  Greek  as  he  pretends.)  Tis  an  excellent  ex 
ercise  for  me,  and  my  lichens  are  getting  a  little  rubbed 
off,  revealing  unsuspected  Attic  inscriptions  underneath. 
My  embarrassments  are  increased  by  the  new-fangled 
pronunciation,  so  unlike  that  of  the  ancient  Grecians  of 
my  time.  Fancy  their  calling  ii/ul  (I'm  I)  amee  /  The 
world  certainly  is  going  to  the  bad  heels  over  head.  I 
had  long  supposed  it,  but  this  convinces  me. 

I  was  wrong  about  the  hydrangea.  It  doesn't  turn 
blue,  but  pale-green,  like  the  sky  sometimes  after  sun 
set,  or  like  a  bit  of  green  cheese  from  the  new  moon. 
It  is  I  that  turns  blue  sometimes,  but  I  sha'n't  any 
more,  now  that  I'm  fairly  forty.  It  was  looking  for 
ward  to  that  which  depressed  me.  One  really  doesn't 
feel  any  older  after  one  gets  there,  as  you  will  find  out 
one  of  these  days.  .  .  . 

TO   R.  W.  GILDER 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Oct.  9,  1890. 
My  dear  Gilder, — You   recall  very  happy  days  with 


1890]  TO    R.  W.  GILDER  421 

your  "  Conversations  "  and  things.  Dio  mio,  how  full 
of  hope  and  confidence  I  was,  how  young,  in  short !  I 
was  twenty-three  when  I  wrote  the  prose,  and  many  of 
the  verses  are  even  younger.  Mabel's  mother  designed 
the  illuminated  covers  before  we  were  married. 

But,  thank  God,  I  am  as  young  as  ever.  There  is  an 
exhaustless  fund  of  inexperience  somewhere  about  me, 
a  Fortunatus-purse  that  keeps  me  so.  I  have  had  my 
share  of  bitter  experiences  like  the  rest,  but  they  have 
left  no  black  drop  behind  them  in  my  blood — pour  me 
faire  envisager  la  vie  en  noir. 

You  must  know,  then,  that  after  a  summer  of  help 
less  inertia,  I  got  up  one  morning  about  a  fortnight  ago 
as  if  nothing  had  ever  happened  —  not  even  a  birthday 
later  than  my  fortieth.  I  haven't  the  smallest  notion 
how  it  was  done,  what  Fountain  of  Youth  I  drank  in 
dream,  but  so  it  was.  May  it  only  last ! 

I  don't  know  De  Ouincey  well  enough  to  write  any 
thing  about  him.  I  have  not  read  a  line  of  him  these 
thirty  years.  I  never  write  about  anybody  without 
reading  him  through  so  as  to  get  a  total  impression, 
and  I  have  not  time  enough  to  do  that  in  his  case  now. 
The  only  feeling  I  find  in  my  memory  concerning  him 
is,  that  he  was  a  kind  of  inspired  cad,  and  an  amplifica 
tion  of  that  with  critical  rose-water  wouldn't  answer 
your  purpose. 

But  I  begin  on  "  Parkman  "  to-morrow.  My  bugbear 
in  respect  of  him  has  been  that  I  wrote  two  or  three 
short  things  about  him  from  twenty-five  to  thirty  years 
ago,  and  can't  say  them  so  well  again.  Do  you  think  I 
might  quote  a  sentence  or  two  from  my  former  self?  I 
may  be  driven  to  it.  ... 


422  LETTERS    OF   JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1890 

I  am  almost  afraid  to  say  how  well  I  am  lest  the 
Liers  in  Wait  should  be  listening,  but  meanwhile  it  is 
delightful. 

Affectionately  yours  (both), 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 
From  the  Universal  Eavesdropper: 

"ANECDOTE  OF  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL. 
"  Passing  along  the  Edgeware  Road  with  a  friend  two 
years  ago,  their  eyes  were  attracted  by  a  sign  with  this 
inscription,  '  Hospital  for  Incurable  Children/  Turning 
to  his  companion,  with  that  genial  smile  for  which  he  is 
remarkable,  Lowell  said  quietly,  *  There's  where  they'll 
send  me  one  of  these  days.' " 

TO   THE   MISSES   LAWRENCE 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Oct.  12,  1890. 
.  .  .  <E>iXrara  afji^orspa —  which,  being  interpreted, 
means,  I  believe,  My  dears  both — I  was  on  the  point 
of  writing  to  ask  how  you  did,  or  what  I  had  done 
that  you  should  be  silent  so  long,  when  your  welcome 
letter  came  to  relieve  me  of  my  doubts.  It  was  as 
full  of  the  warm  South  as  the  beaker  Keats  wished  for, 
and  of  names  that  set  one's  fancy  dancing.  I  hope, 
now  you  are  so  near,  that  you  will  go  to  Venice — 'tis 
the  only  city  that  deserves  to  be  called  she.  Perhaps 
this  feminine  charm  of  hers  works  less  strongly  on 
those  of  your  sex,  but  you  will  be  foolish  virgins  if 
you  don't  call  upon  her  when  you  have  so  good  a 
chance.  Except  London,  Venice  is  the  one  place  I 
care  to  see  again,  and  I  still  hope  it  if  I  live.  She 


1890]  TO   THE  MISSES   LAWRENCE  423 

always  receives  me  like  an  old  lover,  put  upon  a  foot 
ing  of  friendship,  of  course,  yet  with  a  secret  between 
us  that  sets  me  apart  from  ordinary  friends.  And  yet 
would  she  ever  forgive  me  if  I  accepted  the  position 
as  if  there  were  no  risk  in  it? 

And  so  you  have  seen  and  heard  avalanches?  I  am 
not  sure  that  I  don't  like  best  the  silent  white  flash 
so  far  away  that  one  doesn't  hear  the  thunder.  Snow 
has  no  business  to  make  a  noise  any  more  than  a  young 
maiden  has.  When  it  falls,  it  seems  as  if  the  great  si 
lence  Up  There  were  filtering  down  upon  us  flake  by 
flake.  When  it  joins  in  the  mob  of  an  avalanche  it 
belies  its  own  nature,  and  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
itself.  Besides,  I  needn't  go  to  the  Alps  in  search  of 
this  wonder,  for  I  am  familiar  with  the  tame,  domes 
tic  species,  the  cat  of  this  tiger,  here  when  the  deep 
snow  loosens  and  slides  from  the  roof  at  night  in  a 
thaw,  and  wakes  me  just  soon  enough  to  hear  the  last 
throb  of  its  muffled  thunder. 

And  the  Lago  Maggiore,  too,  how  has  it  been  vul 
garized  by  the  rows  of  hotels  that  prink  themselves 
along  its  shores  and  stare  into  its  mirror  with  eyes  as 
dull  as  those  of  tourists !  Not  that  I  don't  think  fond 
ly  of  two  tourists,  and  should  be  glad  to  have  been 
with  them  there.  And  did  you  climb  up  into  the 
empty  noddle  of  San  Carlo  Borromeo  and  put  more 
cleverness  into  it  than  was  ever  there  before  ? 

Well,  well,  we  are  looking  rather  pretty  here,  and 
think  ourselves  well  worth  seeing  in  our  new  autumnal 
fashions.  Our  autumn  beats  the  porphyrogeneti,  for 
he  is  born  not  only  in  the  purple,  but  in  every  other 


424  LETTERS    OF   JAMES   RUSSELL    LOWELL  [1890 

color  that  is  brilliant,  and  in  gold  too,  if  you  come  to 
that.  Per  Bacco!  I  think  Nature  grows  more  and  more 
beautiful  and  companionable  as  one  grows  older,  and 
the  Earth  more  motherly-tender  to  one  who  will  ask 
to  sleep  in  her  lap  so  soon.  But,  in  the  nature  of 
things,  I  am  happy  to  think  you  won't  reach  this  point 
of  view  for  a  long  while  yet. 

I  do  little  else  than  read  of  late,  and  have  been  re 
reading  Rousseau.  I  went  to  him  to  look  up  some 
thing,  grew  interested,  and  went  on  for  weeks.  He  is 
(or  seems)  many  ways  a  very  complex  character,  and 
one  feels  as  if  the  two  poles  of  the  magnet  were  some 
how  mixed  in  him,  so  that  hardly  has  he  attracted  you 
powerfully,  when  you  are  benumbed  with  as  strong  a 
shock  of  repulsion.  He  is  always  the  victim  of  a  fine 
phrase — a  monstrous  liar,  but  always  the  first  dupe  of 
his  own  lie.  I  don't  know  why  I  am  telling  you  this, 
and  I  can't  tell  you  any  more,  you  will  be  glad  to  hear, 
for  one  of  my  grandsons  is  studying  his  Cicero  at  my 
side,  and  asks  me  so  many  questions  that  I  am  puz 
zled  as  to  whether  Catiline  or  Jean  Jacques  were  the 
greater  rascal,  or  Cicero  a  greater  liar  than  J.  J.  How 
ever,  you  will  acknowledge  that  I  seldom  put  such 
stuff  into  my  letters,  but  good  wholesome  nonsense 
rather,  keeping  my  seriousness  to  bore  myself  with. 

You  will  be  glad  to  hear  that  I  am  suddenly  begun 
to  be  much  better — Heaven  only  knows  why,  unless 
it  be  that  I  was  fairly  tired  of  being  good  for  nothing. 
If  ever  you  see  me  again  within  any  reasonable  time, 
you  will  be  shyer  of  me,  I  am  grown  so  young.  You 
won't  be  able  to  treat  me  as  if  I  were  shelved  among 


1890]  TO    R.  W.  GILDER  425 

the  seventies  any  more.     But  I  will  try  to  be  as  old 
as  I  can.  .  .  . 

Good-by. 

Affectionately  yours*, 

GlACOPO   IL   RlGIOVINATO. 


TO   R.  W.  GILDER 

Elm  wood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Nov.  10,  1890. 

My  dear  Gilder, — You  probably  have  been  expect 
ing  to  receive  ere  now  my  little  piece  about  Parkman. 
I  have  been  trying  at  it,  but  my  wits  nowadays  are 
like  a  cow  trying  to  bite  a  pumpkin  (did  you  ever 
see  that  illustration  of  magnis  excidit  ausis  ?)  and  can't 
seem  to  git  no  kind  o'  purchase  on  anything.  My  ill 
ness  has  wrought  some  subtle  change  in  me  which  I 
feel,  but  can't  explain.  I  live  in  a  state  of  nervous 
apprehension,  like  timid  folk  when  burglars  are  about, 
or  an  Irish  landlord  when  there  is  a  hedge  within  gun 
shot.  I  was  getting  over  it  when  I  last  wrote  to  you, 
but  since  then  I  have  had  two  attacks — the  last  yes 
terday — which  both,  to  be  sure,  passed  away  without 
any  serious  consequence,  but  left  me  depressed  and 
disheartened  again.  I  know  it  is  foolish,  but  I  can't 
help  it  as  yet.  By  and  by,  when  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  that  my  malady  is  something  I  must  reckon  with 
for  the  rest  of  my  life,  I  shall  take  it  more  easily. 

I  am  rather  languid  to-day  after  the  enemy's  raid, 
but  I  shall  always  have  energy  enough  to  send  my 
love  to  Mrs.  Gilder  and  you. 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


426  LETTERS   OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1890 

TO    EDWARD    EVERETT   HALE 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Nov.  n,  1890. 

Dear  Edward, — M.  Guizot  asked  me,  "  How  long  do 
you  think  the  American  Republic  will  endure  ?"  My 
answer  was,  "  So  long  as  the  ideas  of  its  founders  con 
tinue  to  be  dominant."  I  quoted  this  in  an  address 
before  the  New  York  Reform  Club  in  1888.  Of  course 
I  condensed  it.  In  my  conversation  with  Guizot,  I 
naturally  explained  that  by  "  ideas  "  I  meant  also  the 
traditions  of  their  race  in  government  and  morals. 

Faithfully  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   MRS.  LESLIE  STEPHEN 

Dec.  4,  1890. 

...  I  am  not  half  what  I  was  this  time  last  year. 
For  the  first  time  in  my  life  I  am  on  ill  terms  with  the 
weather,  which  indeed  has  been  of  late  as  unaccountable 
as  Sarah  Bernhardt,  without  her  motive  of  advertising 
itself.  Yesterday  morning  the  mercury  stood  at  i°  be 
low  zero  of  Fahrenheit.  At  two  o'clock  it  had  risen 
only  to  10°,  blowing  hard  from  the  N.  W.  At  five  the 
wind  went  round  to  the  east  and  it  was  raining.  In 
the  night  it  took  a  miff  at  something,  whisked  back  to 
the  N.  W.,  and  is  now  a  gale,  with  the  glass  sinking  as 
rapidly  as  a  disappointed  child's  heart.  .  .  .  To-day, 
however,  I  have  the  sun,  which  is  always  a  consoler,  but 
if  you  could  hear  the  wind.  The  surges  break  thunder 
ously  in  my  chimneys,  and  the  house  whines  and  whis 
tles  like  the  cordage  of  a  ship  in  heavy  weather.  


1890]  TO   THE   MISSES   LAWRENCE  427 

Here  I  was  suddenly  called  away  by  hearing  a  blind  slam 
in  the  third  story,  threatening  my  window  glass.  I  found 
three  swinging  loose.  Such  are  the  cares  of  a  house 
keeper  with  sixty  windows  on  his  conscience.  How 
often  I  recall  the  saying  of  Montaigne  that  a  loose  tile 
on  his  roof  gave  him  far  deeper  concern  than  matters 
of  real  import. 

I  am  sitting  in  the  sun  as  I  write,  and  letting  him 
bake  me  like  a  pot  in  the  furnace.  I  hope  he  may  give 
me  (poor  earthen  vessel)  a  firmness  of  consistency  to 
resist  the  brazen  fellows  against  whom  I  am  jostled  by 
the  current  of  life.  I  spend  most  of  my  time  in  my 
chair,  for  I  am  denied  any  exercise  that  would  count. 
I  don't  miss  it  as  much  as  I  thought  I  should,  but  miss 

it,  nevertheless.     Were  it  not  for 's  sharp  eye  over 

me,  I  should  break  through  all  rules  and  take  my 
chance.  Still,  I  cling  to  what  hope  of  life  I  have  left, 
and  tighten  my  clutch  as  I  feel  the  end  of  the  rope 
slipping  through  my  fingers.  I  don't  bother  about 
Death,  but  sha'n't  be  sorry  if  he  delays  as  long  as  he 
honestly  can.  This  is  all  stuff,  by  the  way.  I  am  feel 
ing  uncommonly  well.  .  .  . 

TO   THE    MISSES    LAWRENCE 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Dec.  18,  1890. 
.  .  .  You  live  in  the  world's  capital  city,  and  the  only 
advantage  I  can  see  in  such  centres  of  over-population 
is  that  they  supply  endless  topics  for  correspondence. 
Something  is  always  happening  there.  But  what  topic 
has  a  hermit  like  me  save  himself? — supremely  interest- 


428  LETTERS    OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1890 

ing  at  one  end  of  a  correspondence ;  liable  to  lose  flavor 
at  the  other,  three  thousand  miles  away.  Unless,  to 
be  sure,  the  hermit  be  important  enough,  like  St.  An 
thony,  to  attract  the  special  attention  of  the  Evil  One. 
And  even  then  the  spectacles  provided  by  the  Arch 
Tempter  were  hardly  of  a  kind  wherewith  to  entertain 
two  demure  young  women,  though  dwelling  in  Babylon. 
Shall  I  tell  you  of  the  weather?  You  have  enough 
and  to  spare  of  your  own.  No  doubt  we  had  a  great 
storm  last  night,  and  my  chimneys  bellowed  like  bulls 
of  Bashan — or  rather  like  those  of  the  Pope,  for  noth 
ing  came  of  it,  and  this  morning  the  winds  have  bated 
their  breath.  Or  shall  I  tell  you  what  I  have  been 
reading?  I  read  old  books  mostly,  and  am  apt  to 
think  that  they  tell  me  a  secret  or  two  which  they 
have  saved  for  me.  Of  course  I  shouldn't  think  of 
blabbing,  and,  besides,  how  do  I  know  that  they  don't 
say  the  same  thing  to  everybody?  They  may  be  like 
women  in  such  matters.  And  what  do  you  care  about 
Terence,  for  example,  whom  I  have  just  read  through 
again,  when  you  can  go  to  the  French  play?  I  found 
him  rather  amusing  for  a  poor  devil  who  had  to  do  his 
writing  before  America  was  discovered.  And  I  have 
been  re-reading  South's  sermons,  and  like  the  hand 
some  way  he  has  of  taking  everything  for  granted  while 
he  seems  to  be  arguing  its  probability.  But  you  can 
hear  as  good  at  St.  Paul's — I  was  going  to  say.  I  had 
forgotten  Dean  Church's  death,  a  great  loss  to  friend 
ship  and  to  literature,  one  of  the  few  men  worthy  to  sit 
in  Donne's  stall.  I  am  grateful  to  him  for  more  than 
one  kindness. 


1890]  TO   THE   MISSES    LAWRENCE  429 

To  come  back  to  lighter  matters.  I  have  also  been 
reading  Charles  de  Bernard  for  the  I  know  not  whatth 
time.  I  wonder  if  you  know  him  and  like  him  as  much 
as  I  do.  He  is  one  of  the  Balzacidae,  no  doubt,  but  he 
knew  the  Great  World  far  better  than  Balzac  knew  it, 
and  has  a  far  lighter  touch.  He  was  waited  on,  too, 
by  a  guardian  angel  of  gentlemanly  humor  that  gen 
erally  saved  him  from  yielding  to  the  temptation  of 
melodrama  as  Balzac  so  often  did.  I  like  his  shorter 
stories  best,  though  the  devil-may-care  artist  in  "  Ger- 
faut  "  is  a  masterpiece. 

22d.  Here  I  found  myself  such  a  bore  that  I  put  by 
my  letter  for  a  luckier  day.  To-day  is  one  of  trium 
phant  sunshine,  which  is  always  medicinal,  and  then, 
too,  the  days  have  begun  to  lengthen,  which  always 
comforts  me,  I  don't  know  why,  for  I  do  nothing  with 
'em,  and  my  own  are  shortening  all  the  while.  More 
over,  my  malady  has  let  me  alone  for  five  weeks,  and 
I  have  every  reason  to  be  jolly.  The  children  are  all 
busy  and  mysterious  about  Christmas — an  anniversary 
which  I  am  beginning  to  look  on  as  sourly  as  my  Puri 
tan  ancestors  did,  it  has  become  such  a  corvee  of  un 
meaning  presents.  It  was  much  merrier  when  I  was 
young,  and  got  a  gift  or  two  that  were  worth  something 
for  their  rarity  and  because  they  came  from  nearest  and 
dearest.  Nor  do  people  eat  so  manfully  as  they  used 
before  stomachs  were  invented.  My  grandson  Frank, 
to  be  sure,  is  a  doughty  and  serious  trencherman  who, 
after  eating  straight  through  a  menu,  could  turn  round 
and  eat  backwards  to  the  soup  again  with  entire  self- 
possession.  He  is  a  stay  to  me  in  the  general  back- 


430  LETTERS   OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1891 

sliding    and    my   only   mitigation    of   the   approaching 
festival. 

You  see  what  a  cross  old  thing  I  am  become !  It  all 
comes  of  living  too  much  out  of  the  world.  I  fancy 
hermits  are  mostly  dull.  I  am  sure  Parnell's  is — I  don't 
mean  C.  S.,  but  the  doctor.  As  for  C.  S.,  I  pity  him.  I 
don't  like  to  see  anybody  tumble,  and  he  had  qualities 
as  a  captain  that  are  not  too  plenty.  McCarthy  occu 
pies  his  throne  as  the  two  kings  of  Brentford  might. 
The  Irish  half  of  him  will  be  always  consulting  the 
English  half,  and  there  will  be  no  single  sharp -edged 
will  as  before. 

Good-by ;  forgive,  but  don't  forget 

Your  affectionate  and  tiresome 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   E.  L.  GODKIN 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Jan.  5,  1891. 

...  As  for  my  poor  self,  I  have  had  no  sharp  attack 
since  the  i6th  November,  though  an  unwonted  languor 
and  ease  in  getting  tired  remind  me  feelingly  that  I  got 
a  severer  wrench  last  winter  than  I  have  been  willing  to 
think.  At  seventy-one,  I  was  far  short  of  my  age.  At 
seventy-two,  I  have  overtaken  and  passed  it.  But  pa 
tience,  and  shuffle  the  cards ! 

I  am  beginning  to  think  that  Ireland  "  is  almost 
damned  in  a  fair  wife,"  but  I  fancy  Parnell  will  come  to 
the  top  again,  for  none  of  the  others  have  his  quality 
of  captaincy.  McCarthy  is  too  mushy.  But  the  Devil 
seems  to  have  a  finger  in  every  Irish  pie.  .  .  . 


1 891]  TO    MRS.   R.  W.  GILDER  431 

TO   MRS.  R.  W.  GILDER 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  Jan.  12,  1891. 

.  .  .  Yes,  thank  you,  I  am  fairly  well — but  not  what 
I  was.  I  need  no  Gil  Bias  to  tell  me  that — and  I  would 
dismiss  him  if  he  did,  though,  all  the  same.  I  am  no 
longer  an  invalid  exactly,  but  a  val-e-tu-di-na-rian.  Tis 
a  noble  long  word  and  seems  to  imply  promotion.  In 
short,  I  am  as  well  as  need  be,  but  I  can't  do  anything. 
My  spurs,  somehow,  seem  to  have  been  lost  overboard  in 
the  rough  weather  of  last  spring,  as  Dr.  Johnson's  were 
on  his  tour  to  the  Hebrides.  My  Pegasus  only  shakes 
his  ears  and  won't  budge.  That's  the  way  I  am. 

Tell  Gilder  how  much  I  liked  his  poem  in  the  Atlantic 
the  other  week.  The  "New  Day"  is  still  authentically 
shining  on  him.  'Tis  a  good  sign  and  makes  you  both 
younger  than  ever.  .  .  . 

TO   THE   SAME 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Jan.  26,  1891. 

P.  S. 

I  had  hardly  posted  my  answer  to  your  last  letter 
when  I  recollected  with  a  twinge  that  I  had  left  a  ques 
tion  you  asked  me  hanging  like  a  hook  without  its  eye. 
(There  is  a  sex  in  images,  you  will  observe,  which  can 
be  judiciously  fitted  to  one's  correspondent.)  You  asked 
me  what  I  thought  of  Adams's  "  Dana."  Well,  I  like  it. 
He  has  been  immitigably,  but  not,  I  think,  obtrusively 
frank.  . . .  But  the  Adamses  have  a  genius  for  saying  even 
a  gracious  thing  in  an  ungracious  way.  The  Adams 
flavor  is  as  unmistakable  as  that  of  the  Catawba  grape. 


432         LETTERS  OF  JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

It  won't  out  of  the  wine,  do  what  you  will.  I  rather  like 
it.  It  reminds  me  of  New  England  woods.  'Tis  the 
conscience  we  have  inherited  from  our  Puritan  fore- 
bears  (ursa  novanglicd}.  There  are  occasions  where  it 
should  appear  in  evening  dress,  with  the  reticences 
and  connivances  which  that  implies,  and  perhaps  biog 
raphy  is  one  of  them — but  I  am  not  sure.  I  fancy 
an  honest  man  easier  in  his  grave  with  the  bare  truth 
told  about  him  on  his  headstone.  Perhaps  we  pardon 
superiority  more  readily  if  we  can  comfort  ourselves 
with  a  knowledge  of  its  weaknesses.  Dana  had  great 
powers,  but  he  lacked  that  touch  of  genius  which  com- 
munizes,  which  puts  a  man  on  a  level  with  the  highest 
and  lowest  of  his  kind.  He  had  a  talent  for  locking 
himself  in,  with  "  no  admission  except  on  business " 
on  the  door.  But  he  had  a  courage  of  perfect  proof. 
I  knew  him  well  from  boyhood  up.  .  .  .  His  highest 
quality  was  forensic.  He  could  state  a  case  with  a  force 
and  lucidity  that  belong  only  to  minds  of  the  first  rate. 
He  could  convince,  but  somehow  without  persuading. 
Do  you  find  the  real  inside  of  him  in  his  letters  ?  I 
think  not — and  this  is  a  pretty  sure  test.  .  .  . 

TO   MRS.  L.  STEPHEN 

Feb.  11,  1891. 

...  I  wish  you  could  see  my  dogs  lying  before 
my  fire,  each  making  a  pillow  of  the  other  and  look 
ing  round  to  me  from  time  to  time  lest  I  should  for 
get  they  loved  me.  Human  eyes  have  generally  pre 
cious  little  soul  in  them,  but  with  theirs  there  comes 


1891]  TO    MRS.   FRANCIS    G.  SHAW  433 

sometimes  the  longing  for  a  soul  and  almost  overtak 
ing  it  that  is  desperately  touching.  It  makes  me  be 
lieve  in  the  story  of  those  poor  transmogrified  sisters 
in  the  "  Arabian  Nights."  I  do  a  good  deal  of  loose 
reading,  too,  after  a  fashion.  I  lately  read  Boswell's 
"  Johnson  "  through  again,  for  the  fourth  time,  and  have 
just  finished  "  Scott's  Diary,"  a  refreshingly  manly 
book.  I  read  novels  also,  a  new  habit  with  me  — 
and  have  to  thank  your  friend,  Mr.  Norris,  for  much 
pleasant  disposal  of  time  which  I  knew  not  what  to 
do  with.  I  shall  begin  another  story  of  his  the  mo 
ment  I  have  posted  this. 

A  cold  snap  is  just  beginning  with  us,  and  the  north 
west  wind  is  crowing  lustily  in  my  chimney.  But 
the  sun  is  shining,  and  the  mere  consciousness  of  that 
always  keeps  me  warm.  It  is  by  imagination  that  we 
mostly  live,  after  all.  I  more  and  more  doubt  whether 
I  shall  get  across  this  spring.  Perhaps  I  may  later, 
and  drop  in  on  you  at  St.  Ives.  .  .  .  What  could  pos 
sess  Leslie  to  go  to  Switzerland,  where  it  is  as  cold  as 
science,  and  they  have  given  up  Tell?  But  it  is  well 
for  him  to  get  away  from  the  Dixery.  I  hate  to  think 
of  his  giving  his  life  for  the  lives  of  fellows  of  whom 
we  were  blessedly  ignorant ;  they  were  most  of  them 
dea'd  or  damned,  and  we  hoped  we  were  rid  of  'em.  .  ,  . 


TO   MRS.  FRANCIS   G.  SHAW 

Elmwood,  Feb.  18,  1891. 

.  .  .  Your  letter  was  a  cordial  to  me.     You  are  quite 
right  in  thinking  that  I  don't  like  my  own  things  so 
II.— 28 


434  LETTERS   OF   JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1891 

well  as  I  wish  I  did.  But  that  doesn't  hinder  my  lik 
ing  very  much  that  you  should  like  them  better  than 
I  do.  There  is  no  valid  reason  why  you  shouldn't,  for 
you  don't  know  how  much  poorer  they  are  than  I 
hoped  they  were  going  to  be.  ...  I  have  been  a  very 
miserable  creature  for  a  month  or  more,  but  things  are 
beginning  to  go -better  with  me,  and  I  hope  to  be  young 
again  with  the  year — never  so  young  as  you,  to  be  sure, 
but  fairly  so  for  a  veteran.  .  .  . 


TO   THOMAS   HUGHES 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  March  7,  1891. 

Dear  Friend, — I  was  just  going  to  write  to  you  when 
I  was  knocked  flat  by  the  sharpest  attack  of  gout  (save 
one)  I  have  ever  had.  .  .  . 

I  am  glad  you  got  the  books  and  like  them.  I 
didn't  mean  by  this  collected  and  uniform  edition  to 
write  "  Finis,"  though  I  am  not  sure  my  health  won't 
write  it  for  me.  But  I  have  enough  uncollected  es 
says  of  one  kind  and  another  to  make  a  volume  which 
I  shall  publish  in  the  spring  or  autumn.  I  have  also 
poems  enough  to  fill  a  small  other  volume.  If  the 
summer  does  as  much  for  me  as  I  hope,  I  suppose 
that  I  shall  wet  my  pen  again.  .  .  . 

You  make  my  mouth  water  by  what  you  say  of 
your  fair  neighbors,  whom  I  venture  to  count  among 
my  friends,  but  neither  you  nor  they  must  think  the 
Irish  Question  settled,  or  near  it.  You  know  how 
highly  I  value  Balfour,  and  I  think  he  has  done  much 
and  well,  but  the  Irish  trouble  is  something  too  deep 


1891]  TO   W.   D.   HOWELLS   AND   E.  R.  HOAR  435 

for  railways  or  transplantation  to  cure.  It  is  a  case 
of  suppressed  gout.  Experto  crede — don't  I  live  in 
the  midst  of  a  population  chiefly  Irish?  It  is  proof 
against  everything — even  against  the  exquisite  comi 
cality  of  its  own  proceedings.  Boulogne  must  be  in 
the  Grand  Duchy  of  Gerolstein. 

You  are  having  daffodils  and  things  ere  this.  We 
are  still  in  the  depth  of  winter,  if  that  is  to  be  meas 
ured  in  snow.  The  view  from  my  windows  would 
gladden  the  heart  of  a  polar  bear.  But  this  will  make 
our  spring  less  unendurable  when  it  comes. 

Our  politics  are  going  well.  The  Congress  just  ended 
has  spent  all  our  surplus  and  more.  This  brings  us 
down  to  hard-pan  at  last,  which  will  be  good  for  us.  ... 

TO   W.  D.  HOWELLS 
Elmwood,  Cambridge,  Mass.,  April  15,  1891. 
My  dear  Howells, — How   could   you    doubt   that    I 
should  like  anything  you  wrote — even  about  myself?* 
I  am,  perhaps,  less  able  to  judge  what  you  have  sent 
me,  because   I   am    less  intimate  with  my  own  works 
than  with  those  of  other  people,  but  I  was  altogether 
pleased  that  you  should  have  found  in  them  the  mo 
tive  for  saying  so  many  pleasant  things  about  me. 
Always  affectionately  yours, 

EL  VIEJO. 

TO   E.  R.  HOAR 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  June  i,  1891. 

Dear  Judge, — I  missed  you  and  marvelled,  and  am 
*  In  the  Editor's  Study,  Harper  s  Magazine. 


436  LETTERS    OF    JAMES    RUSSELL    LOWELL 

grieved  to  hear  that  you  had  so  painful  a  reason  for 
not  coming.  I  trust  you  are  more  than  convalescent 
by  this  time,  and  there  is  nothing  pleasanter  to  look 
back  upon  [than]  the  gout — unless  it  be  a  prison. 
Even  in  the  very  frenzy  of  its  attack  I  have  found 
topics  of  consolatory  reflection.  Is  it  podagra?  I  think 
how  much  better  off  I  am  than  the  poor  centipedes 
must  be.  Is  it  chiragra  ?  I  imagine  Briareus  roaring. 

I  call  my  gout  the  unearned  increment  from  my 
good  grandfather's  Madeira,  and  think  how  excellent  it 
must  have  been,  and  sip  it  cool  from  the  bin  of  fancy, 
and  wish  he  had  left  me  the  cause  instead  of  the  ef 
fect.  I  dare  say  he  would,  had  he  known  I  was  com 
ing  and  was  to  be  so  unreasonable. 

My  neighbor,  Mr.  Warner,  came  in  last  evening  and 
tells  me  the  doctors  pronounce  it  [your  attack]  to<be  in 
flammatory  rheumatism.  But  from  his  account  of  it  I 
am  sure  it  was  acute  gout.  Experto  crede  Roberto,  as 
our  old  friend  Democritus  Junior  used  to  say.  Three 
more  than  intolerable  days,  and  then  a  gradual  relaxation 
of  the  vise,  one  turn  at  a  time,  but  each  a  foretaste  of 
Elysium — that's  gout  and  nothing  else.  Our  doctors 
don't  know  gout.  .  .  . 

Don't  think  because  I  have  had  a  consultation  over 
me  that  I  am  worse.  I  have,  to  be  sure,  been  very  weak 
lately  and  scant  o'  breath,  but  for  a  day  or  two  I  have 
felt  lighter  in  the  spirit  and  in  the  flesh  too.  Sleep 
lessness  has  been  my  bother,  owing  to  a  nervous  cough 
which  lies  in  ambush  till  I  go  to  bed  and  then  harries 
me  without  ceasing.  The  mere  bodily  weariness  of  it 
is  such  that  I  get  up  more  tired  than  I  went  to  bed. 


1891]  TO    MRS.   EDWARD    BURNETT  437 

I  am  now  fighting  it  with  opium,  and  if  I  can  once 
break  up  its  automatic  action  (for  such  it  has  become) 
I  shall  begin  to  gain  at  once,  I  think.  Then,  perhaps, 
I  shall  be  able  to  get  up  to  Concord,  which  would  do 
me  good  in  more  ways  than  one. 

Day  before  yesterday  I  should  not  have  had  vital 
energy  enough  to  write  all  this,  nor  resolution  enough 
to  write  even  a  notelet,  for  which  /  thank  God,  though 
perhaps  you  mayn't. 

Convalescence  is  an  admirable  time  for  brooding 
over  mares'- nests,  and  I  hope  you  may  hatch  an  egg 
or  two.  Several  handsome  chicks  of  whimsey  have 
clipped  the  shell  under  me. 

Good-by  and  God  bless  you.  Make  the  first  use  of 
your  feet  in  coming  to  see  me. 

Affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 

TO   MRS.  EDWARD   BURNETT 

Elmwood,  Cambridge,  June  14,  1891. 

.  .  .  Thermometer  76°,  north  veranda  a  paradise, 
the  pale  green  of  the  catalpa  so  beautiful  against  the 
darker  of  the  English  elms  that  I  can  hardly  keep  my 
eyes  on  my  paper  to  write ;  Joe  sitting  near  me  doing 
his  algebra,  which  he  is  using,  I  fear,  as  a  prophylactic 
against  the  piety  of  church-going,  and  I  weakly  sub 
mitting,  in  the  absence  of  the  domestic  despot — such 
is  the  mise-en-sdne.  My  handwriting  will  run  down 
hill.  I  suppose  because  /  am — in  spite  of  continued 
watchfulness  on  my  part. 


438  LETTERS    OF    JAMES   RUSSELL   LOWELL  [1891 

The  house  goes  on  quietly  enough  so  far  as  I  can 
see.  .  .  .  Shall  I  send  you  "  The  Moonstone"  ?  I  found 
it  very  interesting — not  such  a  breakneck  interest  as 
Reade's,  where  one  follows  the  scent  of  the  plot  head 
long  as  that  of  a  fox  in  the  hunting-field,  but  still  with 
an  interest  keen  enough  for  the  arm-chair.  I  am  now 
in  the  midst  of  "  Armadale." 

I  have  said  all  that  I  know,  except  that  George  con 
tinues  to  worry  the  lawn  with  his  two  machines,  one 
of  which  perfects  the  roughness  left  by  the  other.  His 
air  when  mounted  on  the  horse-machine  puts  me  in 
mind  of  Neptune  in  the  "  Iliad."  .  .  . 


TO   LESLIE   STEPHEN 

Elmwood,  June  21,  1891. 

Dear  Leslie, — If  I  have  not  written  it  has  been  be 
cause  I  had  nothing  good  to  say  of  myself.  I  have 
been  very  wretched  with  one  thing  and  another.  And 
now  a  painful  sensation  is  taking  its  turn.  I  could 
crawl  about  a  little  till  this  came,  and  now  my  chief 
exercise  is  on  the  nightmare.  I  can't  sleep  without 
opium. 

Your  affectionate  letter  was  refreshing  to  me,  and 
there  was  not  a  word  in  it  to  which  I  did  not  heartily 
respond.  I  thank  God  for  that  far-away  visit  of  yours, 
which  began  for  me  one  of  the  dearest  friendships  of 
my  life.  How  vividly  I  remember  our  parting  under 
the  lamp-post  when  you  went  away !  I  beguile  the 
time  now  chiefly  in  the  reading  of  novels,  and  am 
looking  forward  eagerly  to  a  new  one  by  your  friend 


1891]  TO    LESLIE    STEPHEN  439 

Norris  which  I  see  announced.  I  never  read  so  many 
before,  I  think,  in  my  life,  and  they  come  to  me  as 
fresh  as  the  fairy  tales  of  my  boyhood.  .  .  . 

All  your  friends  here  are  well,  and  each  doing  good  in 
his  several  way.  .  .  . 

Always  affectionately  yours, 

J.  R.  LOWELL. 


INDEX 


Titles  of  Mr.  Lowell's  poems  and  other  writings  referred  to  in  his  Letters  are  entered 
in  italics  in  the  following  index. 


,    Mrs.,  Letters   to,   1875,    ii. 

138,  139,  141,  145,  148,  151,  153; 
— 1876,  154,  162,  170,  182  ; — 1877, 
186. 

Abolition  of  slavery,  an  Ohio  aboli 
tionist's  argument,  i.  75. 

Abolitionists,  the  writer's  sympathy 
with,  i.  35;  ii.  334;  he  desires  to 
be  identified  with,  i.  112;  their 
adherents  not  to  be  extravagantly 
lauded,  113;  their  theories,  125; 
their  position  destructive,  142  ; 
ridiculed  in  his  Class-poem,  ii,  302. 
See  also  Slavery. 

Absence,  i.  139. 

Absent  friends,  ii.  129. 

"  Accommodation  "  omnibus,  i.  270. 

Accounts,  ii.  ill. 

Adams,  C.  F.,  Sr. ,  ii.  26,  172  ;  can 
didate  for  governor,  177. 

Adams,  C.  F.,  Jr.,  his  "  Dana,"  ii.  431. 

Adams,  Henry,  ii.  80. 
"Adams,  John,  death  of,  ii.  173. 

Adams,  J.  Q.,i.  94. 
^Address  to  the  Muse,  i.  171. 

Adee,  Mr.,  ii.  200. 

Adirondacks,  i.  279. 

Advertisements  in  German  newspa 
pers,  i.  251. 

Advertiser,  Boston,  i.  37,  189. 

/Eschylus,  ii.  50,  404. 

Affection,  no  statute  of  limitations 
for,  i.  196.  See  also  Love. 

Affliction,  i.  176,  327.  See  also  Con 
solation;  Death. 

After  the  Burial,  i.  176;  ii.  n,  142. 

Agassiz,  Elegy  on,  ii.  114,  H5»  I2I» 

122,  124,  139. 

Age,  advancing,  ii.  64,  74,  97,  no, 
120,  144,  163,  215,  241,  273,  284, 


!      294,  328,  393,  403,  424;  forty  years, 
419. 

'  'Alabama,"  str. ,  i.  337 ;  the  negotia 
tions,  ii.  43,  70.  See  also  United 
States  ;  Politics. 

Aladdin's  lamp,  i.  200. 

Alarcon,  his  "  Semejante  a  si  mis- 
mo,"  ii.  231. 

Alcestis,  Story's  statue  of,  ii.  118. 

Alcott,  A.  Bronson,  i.  172;  anecdote 
of,  ii.  92 ;  the  second  of  Studies  fo? 
Two  Heads,  349. 

Aldrich,  T.  B.,  his  "  Story  of  a  Bad 
Boy,"  ii.  47. 

,  Letters    to,    1869,  ii.   47; — 


1873,  98  ;— 1882,  267  ;— 1886,  322  ; 
—1888,  350. 

Alexandria,  ii.  142. 

Alexandrine  verse,  ii.  84. 

Alfonso  XII.,  king  of  Spain,  his 
marriage,  ii.  205. 

Allston,  Washington,  i.  37;  his  gal 
lery,  40. 

Almanac-making,  i.  387. 

Alpha  Delta  Phi  Society,  i.  35. 

Ambition,  i.  72. 

American  Academy,  i.  271. 

American  Civil  War,  in  1862,  i.  322; 
in  July,  1864,  336;  the  war  ended, 
344;  the  author's  losses  by,  ii.  141, 

444- 
American  Eagle,  her  message  to  the 

British  Lion,  i.  363. 
American  idea,  expressed  in  poetry, 

i.  148. 
American  literature,  its   dangers,  i. 

351- 

American  poetry,  article  on,  i.  125. 
American  school  of  classical  studies 

at  Athens,  ii.  325. 


442 


INDEX 


American  seamen,  ii.  41. 

American  society,  dulness  of,  from 
lack  of  leisure,  ii.  112. 

Americanism,  ii.  196. 

Americanisms,  i.  148,  299,  307  ;  ii. 
55,  66. 

Americans,  their  worship  of  great 
ness,  i.  94  ;  fondness  for  .geneal 
ogy,  ii.  41  ;  feeling  towards,  in 
Europe,  158  ;  Westerners,  169, 
248  ;  too  self-conscious,  240,  244  ; 
English  influence,  244;  Americans 
abroad,  248. 

Among  my  Books,  ii.  151,  154,  155, 
167,  288. 

Anarchists,  hanging  of  the,  ii.  394. 

Anderson,  Major,  i.  309. 

Andrew,  Gov.,  i.  309  ;  his  charac 
ter,  397. 

Anecdotes,  an  Ohio  abolitionist  on 
the  Bangor  boat,  i.  75  ;  the  au 
thor's  inclinations  towards  Gra- 
hamism,  87  ;  Irishwoman  in  a 
Brooklyn  omnibus,  88  ;  careless 
driver  compared  to  a  last  year's 
jackass,  225  ;  Mrs.  Leigh  Hunt's 
remark  on  Byron's  portrait,  237  ; 
Thackeray  at  a  little  dinner  in 
London,  238  ;  Dr.  Reichenbach 
at  a  court-ball,  254  ;  a  landlord 
and  his  Irish  friends,  275  ;  sheep- 
shearing  in  Hull,  291  ;  Franklin 
Pierce  at  a  dinner  in  Boston,  303  ; 
Hawthorne  and  Franklin  Pierce, 
303  ;  poem  by  Wendell  Holmes 
at  a  dinner  to  Prince  Jerome  Na 
poleon,  316  ;  Bronson  Alcott,  ii. 
92. 

Anne,  Queen,  her  "  pocket-melons," 
ii.  25. 

Anti-rent  war,  ii.  60. 

Antislavery  Society,  the  executive 
committee,  i.  145,  155,  159,  161; 
Lowell's  relations  with,  181.  See 
also  "Standard." 

Apple dore,    Pictures  from,    i.    217, 

219,   22O,   221. 

Appleton,  T.  G.,  i.  232,  268. 
Applicants  for  positions,  i.  268. 
April,  i.  362.      See  also  Spring. 
Architecture,  Gothic,  i.  132  ;  future 

of  architecture,  133. 
Arcturus,  i.  62,  64,  65. 
Arethusa,  the  fountain,  i.  214. 
Aristocrats,  ii.  289. 


Aristophanes,    "  The  Birds,"   given 

at  Cambridge,  England,  ii.  274. 
Aries,  ii.  405. 

Arnold,  Matthew,  ii.  276,  311,  347. 
Art,  i.  231  ;  ii.  226,  264.     See  also 

Painting. 

Arts  and  Crafts  Society,  ii.  359. 
Ashfield,  i.  348  ;  ii.  309. 
Ashridge,  ii.  270. 
Aspirations  of  youth,  i.  139. 
Asses,  the  lack  of  an  esetpest,  i.  361  ; 

those  conscious  of  their  character, 

ii.  179. 

Associations,  i.  269;  ii.  115. 
Asturias,  Princess  of,  ii.  202. 
Athens,  visit  to,  in  1878,  ii.  218  ; 

recollections  of,  326. 
Atlantic  Almanac,  i.  386. 
Atlantic  Monthly,  i.  267,  281,   286, 

287,  289,  298,  334,  362,  377  ;  ii. 

13,   49,  121,  139,  240,   268,  292, 

301  ;  Fields's  editorship,  i.  310. 
Atlas,  his  burden  of  real  estate,  ii.  72. 
Auckland,  Lord,  ii.  238. 
Augsburg,  i.  263. 
August,  i.  270.     See  also  Summer. 
Augustine,  St.,  quoted,  i.  96. 
Aumale,  Due  d',  ii.  89,  103. 
Aurora,  ii.  46. 
Authority,    decay   of    the    principle 

of,  ii.  242. 
Authors,  great,   i.  243  ;    those   who 

become  aristocrats,  ii.  289. 
Author's  pay,  i.  36,  62,  70,  83,  84, 

86,  108,  125,  146,  153,  184,  328, 

343,  352  I  ii.  4,  262,  330,  384. 
Authorship,   i.    127,    141  ;    to   write 

only  when  the  spirit  moves,   114; 

the  advantage  of  popularity,  210. 

See  also  Composition,  Literary  life. 
Autograph-books,  ii.  348. 
Autograph-hunters,  ii.  300,  369. 
Autographs,  essay  on,  i.  354. 
Autumn,  trees  and  sights  of,  i.  315. 
Autumn  weather,  i.  273  ;  ii.  46,  74, 

284. 

Baby-tending,  i.  103. 
Bachelors,  i.  374. 
Backwoodsmen,  i.  358. 
Balfour,  A.  J.,  ii.  418,  434. 
Ballad-singers,  ii.  82. 
Balzac,  and  Bernard,  ii.  429. 
Bancroft,  George,  i.  360  ;  his  Ger 
man,  ii.  365. 


INDEX 


443 


Bandits,  ii.  119. 

Bangor,  trip  to,  in  1843,  i.  75. 

Banks,  N.  P.,  ii.  158. 

Bartlett,  John,  i.  148  ;  ' '  Dictionary 
of  Americanisms,"  i.  299. 

Bartol,  C.  A.,  ordination,  i.  14. 

"  Bat,  bat,  come  into  my  hat,"  i.  321. 

Bayard,  T.  F.,  ii.  298,  364. 

Beaconsfield,  Earl  of,  ii.  136,  222  ; 
his  policy,  234. 

Bear,  the  author  compares  his  con 
dition  in  1850  to  the  life  of  a, 
185. 

Beattie,  his  "  Minstrel,"  i.  18. 

Beauty,  i.  172  ;  ii.  264. 

Beaver  Brook,  i.  149. 

Beds,  German,  i.  241. 

Beecher,  H.  W.,  ii.  159. 

Beggars,  ii.  82. 

Beliefs,  ii.  125  ;  hereditary,  152. 
See  also  Religious  belief. 

Bendemann,  i.  246. 

Benevolence,  various  kinds  of,  i.  160. 

Bentley,  on  Milton,  i.  396. 

Benton,  Joel,   on  Lowell's  political 

verse,  ii.  155. 
,  Letter  to,  1876,  ii.  155. 

Beranger,  ii.  84. 

Bernard,  Charles  de,  ii.  429. 

Bernard,  Prof.  M.,  of  Oxford,  ii.  103. 

Bernhardt,  Sara,  ii.  310,  426. 

Beverly,  summer  in,  i.  212  ;  the 
country  described,  214. 

Bible,  its  inspiration,  i.  47  ;  its  meas 
ured  prose  unmatched,  396  ;  also 
ii.  58,  168. 

Biglow  Papers,  English  appreciation 
of,  i.  295,  297  ;  circumstances  of 
their  original  composition,  295  ; 
the  English  edition,  297,  300  ; 
F.  T.'s  criticism  in  "  Cornhill,"  ii. 
331  ;  also  63,  282  ;  first  series,  i. 
115,  119,  121,  128,  129,  136,  138, 
141,  142,  143,  151,  381  ;  ii.  41, 
338  ;  Gay's  notice  of,  i.  145  ;  pi 
rated  edition  of  1856,  275  ;  sec 
ond  series,  267,  308,  318,  319, 
320,  322,  342,  351,  362,  367,  371, 
376  ;  ii.  138. 

Biography,  i.  91  ;  ii.  316. 

Bird,  Joe,  i.  68. 

Bird  songs,  i.  202,  232,  241,  278, 
280,  289,  370,  384;  ii.  25,  98, 
128,  132,  144,  219,  262,  273,  277, 
284,  337,  338,  352,  381,  384- 


Birds,  i.  18,  164  ;  ii.  132,  195,  331, 
335,  336,  403,  410,  415,  448. 

Birds'  nests,  article  on,  i.  320. 

Bismarck,  ii.  400. 

Elaine,  J.  G.,  ii.  170;  defeat  at 
Cincinnati  in  1876,  171,  174  ; 
defeat  in  1884,  287. 

Blanc,  his  "  Vocabolario "  and  com 
ment  on  Dante,  i.  395. 

Bliss,  Edward  P.,  Letter  to,  1876,  ii. 
160. 

Bobolinks,  i.  158,  202,  289. 

Boccaccio,  the  founder  of  modern 
prose,  i.  339. 

Bologna  University,  Lowell  repre 
sents  Harvard  at,  ii.  354. 

Bonheur,  Rosa,  i.  246. 

Book-buying,  ii.  86,  87. 

Books,  ii.  428. 

Bores,  i.  16,  311. 

Borrowing,  i.  152. 

Boston,  architecture  in,  i.  133. 

Boston  Advertiser,  i.  37,  189. 

Boston  audiences,  ii.  54. 

Boston  Book,  The,  i.  166,  n. 

Boston  harbor,  sailing  in,  i.  292. 

Boston  hospitality,  ii.  163. 

Boston  Miscellany,  i.  63,  64,  65,  66, 
70,  166,  n. 

Boston  Post,  i.  36,  61. 

Boutwell,  George  S.,  ii.  158. 

Boyle,  Miss  Mary,  publication  of 
Lander's  letters  to,  ii.  311. 

Boys,  letters  of,  ii.  340. 

Bramwell,  Sir  Frederick,  his  speech 
at  Peterhouse,  ii.  291. 

Brass,  i.  240. 

Brattleborough  water-cure,  i.  95. 

Breeding,  ii.  89. 

Bremer,  Frederika,  visit  expected, 
i.  168  ;  character,  174. 

Briggs,  Charles  F.  ,1.54;  described 
in  the  Fable  for  Critics,  55  ;  his 
humorous  vein,  118  ;  connection 
with  the  Fable  for  Critics,  ii.  334. 
,  Letters  to,  1843,  i.  72  ; — 


1844,  76,  78,  81  ;— 1845,  83,  85, 
86,  92,  99  ;— 1846,  102,  104  ; — 
1847,  117,  120; — 1848,  122,  124, 
130,  137,  138,  142,  148  ; — 1849, 
167  ;— 1850,  170  ; — 1852,  194  ; — 
1853,  198,  199,  202,  203,  205  ; 
—1854,  209,  210  ;— 1856,  274  ;— 
1861,  310. 
Bright,  John,  i.  293  ;  ii.  251. 


444 


INDEX 


Brincken,  Baron  von,  ii.  260. 
Bristow,     Benj.    H.,     candidate    in 

1876,  ii.  171. 

Broadway  Journal,  i.  83,  85,  86. 
Bronte,  Charlotte,  her  "Jane  Eyre," 

i.  39°- 

Brooklyn,  visit  to  friends  in,  hu 
morously  described,  i.  87. 

Brooks,  i.  148. 

Brown,  Dr.  John,  i.  322. 

Brown,  John,  i.  298. 

Brown,  Judge,  ii.  192. 

Brown,  Mr.,  i.  319. 

Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  on  sneezing, 
i.  103  ;  Stephen's  estimate  of,  ii. 
165  ;  Emerson  compared  with, 
276. 

Brownell,  Mr.,  ii.  350. 

Browning,  Robert,  i.  124,  235. 

Brownings,  the,  in  Florence,  i.  191. 

Bruges,  i.  245  ;  ii.  108. 

Bryant,  in  Fable  for  Critics,  i.  131  ; 
poem  for  the  "Crayon,"  217;  the 
estimate  in  the  Fable  unjust,  221  ; 
poem  on  trees,  ii.  13  ;  poem  for 
his  birthday,  333. 

Bryce,  James,  ii.  64,  68. 

Buckle,  his  "  History  of  Civiliza 
tion,"  i.  284. 

Buffalo  Bill,  ii.  377. 

Bunner,  H.  C.,  his  "Airs  from  Ar- 
cady,"  ii.  301. 

Burleigh,  Charles  C.,  i.  no. 

Burne-Jonesy  Edward,  ii.  317,  359. 

Burne-Jones,  Phil.,  ii.  402. 

Burnett,  Edward,  ii.  363. 

Burnett,  Mrs.   Edward,  Letters    to, 

1877,  ii.    194,    200; — 1878,    216, 
218,  223,  228  ;— 1880,  246  ;— 188G, 

309,  313,  314,  315,  317  ;— 1687, 

337,  34o;— 1888,  353,  354,   355, 

362  ;-1889,   363,  374,  378,   384  ; 

—1891,  437.      See  Lowell,  Mabel. 

Burns,   Anthony,   fugitive    slave,    i. 

212. 

Burns,  Robert,  original  poem  in  the 
style  of,  i.  21  ;  his  sleeve-buttons, 
ii.  150. 

Burroughs,  John,  his  criticism  of 
Lowell's  knowledge  of  out-doors, 
ii.  262. 

Butler,  B.  F.,  ii.  29,  70,  158;  can 
didate  for  governor,  177.  . 

Butler,  Samuel,  quoted,  i.  9. 

Byron,  i.    18,   79  ;  ii.  47,  162,  386  ; 


Mrs.  Leigh  Hunt's  remark  on  his 
portrait,  i.  238;  the  charges  against, 
ii.  48. 

Cabot,  Miss,  Letter  to,  1869,  ii.  38. 

Calderon,  i.  319,  386  ;  ii.  50,  149, 
295,  378,  413- 

California  constitution,  ii.  243. 

Calvinism,  ii.  148,  165,  242. 

Cambridge,  the  writer's  love  for,  i. 
19  ;  ii.  88,  102,  210,  213  ;  election 
of  1838,  i.  33  ;  burning  of  Wil- 
lard's  stables  in  1848,  144 ;  the 
great  storm  of  1851,  191  ;  horse- 
railroad  and  water- works  intro 
duced,  261 ;  the  summer  of  1856, 
270 ;  the  modern  improvements, 
270;  the  foot-path  by  the  river, 
281  ;  in  May,  290 ;  in  summer, 
403;  uneventfulness,  ii.  24;  growth 
as  a  city,  73  ;  return  to,  129  ;  char 
acter  of  the  country  about,  163  ; 
its  business  ways.,  176  ;  associa 
tions,  211.  See  also  Elmwood, 
Harvard  College. 

Cambridge  Chronicle,  i.  191. 

Cambridge  Twenty  Years  Ago,  i. 
209. 

Cambridge  University,  proposed 
American  lectureship,  i.  360. 

Campbell,  i.  15,  18. 

Camp-meeting  at  Brookline,  i.  49.- 

Canada,  annexation  of,  ii.  26,  28. 

Canovas  del  Castillo,  prime  minister, 
ii.  231. 

Capitalists,  ii.  73. 

Carcassonne,  ii.  216. 

Carlyle,  Mrs.,  her  "Correspond 
ence,"  ii.  273. 

Carlyle,  Thomas,  i.  30  ;  ii.  74,  282, 
315  ;  his  "  Miscellanies."  i.  47  ; 
Emerson  and,  ii.  272  ;  his  "  Early 
Letters,"  320. 

Carriages,  riding  in,  i.  152. 

Carrolls,  of  Alexandria,  ii.  142. 

Carter,  Robert,  i.  54. 

Cathedral,  The,  ii.  35,  38,  43,  49, 
55,  57,  62,  64,  65,  138. 

Caucuses,  ii.  134 ;  importance  of, 
161. 

Cavaliers,  i.  32. 

Cemeteries,  i.  88. 

Centennial  celebrations,  ii.  141,  150, 
176. 

Cerberus,  i.  102.   • 


INDEX 


445 


Cervantes,  "Don  Quixote,"  ii.  153, 
J55.  3O1  J  Cuesta's  edition.  212. 

Chadwick,  Mr. ,  his  sketch  of  Whit- 
by,  ii.  375- 

Chamberlain,  Joseph,  ii.  313 ;  the 
Irish  question,  339. 

Chance,  ii.  370. 

Change,  ii.  121,  123. 

Chapman,  George,  i.  288  ;  ii.  134. 

Chapman,  Mrs.  M.  W.,  i.  in. 

Character,  in  great  geniuses,  i.  99  ; 
relation  to  the  outside  world,  ii. 
340. 

Charity,  ii.  311. 

Charlemagne,  birthplace  of,  ii.  109. 

Chartres,  Cathedral  of,  i.  237,  239. 
See  also  Cathedral. 

Chase,  Salmon  P.,  dinner  to,  i.  340; 
his  character,  ii.  7. 

Chateaubriand,  ii.  47. 

Chaucer,  i.  79,  357  ;  the  "Knight's 
Tale,"  i.  100. 

Cherubs,  of  Titian  and  others,  i.  264. 

Chester,  England,  ii.  82. 

Chicago  anarchists,  ii.  394. 

Chickens,  i.  73,  77. 

Child,  death  of,  i.  81. 

Child,  F.  J.,  i.  328  ;  ii.  192,  193, 
211,  250  ;  his  "  English  and  Scot 
tish  Popular  Ballads,"  271 ;  on  the 
Commemoration  Ode,  306. 

,  Letters  to,  1878,  ii.  210  : — 

1879,    245J  —  1883,    270  ;  — 1884, 
277. 

Child,  Mrs.  L.  M.,  i.  77  ;  in  Fable  for  ' 
Critics,  i.  131. 

Childhood,  the  delights  of,  i.  272. 

Children,  the  father's  duty  towards, 
i.  103  ;  education  of,  147  ;  sleep 
ing,  179  ;  fondness  for,  ii.  303. 

Chilton,  R.  S.,  Letters  to,  1870,  ii. 
55  ;— 1875,  150  ;— 1885,  302. 

Choate,  Rufus,  article  on,  i.  285. 

Cholera  in  Cambridgeport,  i.  371. 

Christianity,  need  of  reform  of,  i.  98. 

Christmas,  i.  323  ;  ii.  152,  154,  429. 

Church,  Dean,  ii.  428. 

Church,  crying  need  of  reform,  i.  98  ; 
cathedral-and-surplice  mania,  a  re 
action  from  Puritanism,  106;  Goth 
ic  architecture  and,  132,  134. 

Church  of  England,  i.  34  ;  dises 
tablishment,  ii.  94. 

Church-going,  i.  39  ;  ii.  148. 

Churchill,  Lord  Randolph,  ii.  317. 


Cicero,  ii.  424. 

Cid,  editions  of  the,  ii.  212. 

Cider,  i.  289. 

Cigars,  degeneracy  of,  i.  48  ;  gift  of, 

from  C.   F.  Briggs,  170;  ode   of 

thanks  for  a  gift  of,  207. 
Cincinnati    Convention  of   1876,   ii. 

*7i,  J73. 

Circumstance,  influence  of,  on  life, 
i.  48. 

Cky,  advantages  of  life  in,  i.  64. 

Civil-Service  reform,  ii.  161,  242, 
272  ;  Curtis's  report  in  1871,  78; 
its  relation  to  the  South,  133. 

Claflin,  Gov.  William,  ii.  20,  181. 

Class-day  Poem,  i.  30;  ii.  302. 

Claude,  i.  246,  248. 

Clergy,  attacks  on,  deprecated,  i.  74. 

Cleveland,  Grover,  ii.  296,  299,  344, 
364  391  ;  his  election  in  1884,  ii. 
287;  and  the  mission  to  Great  Brit 
ain,  293  ;  at  the  Harvard  25Oth 
anniversary,  326. 

Cleveland,  Mrs.  Grover,  ii.  363,  364. 

Clifford,  Mrs.  W.  K.,  Letters  to, 
1884,  ii.  280,  283,  284,  285,  288, 
290;— 1885,  295;— 1869,  373,  388  ; 
—1890,  396,  401. 

Clocks,  Connecticut,  i.  213. 

Clough,  A.  H.,  i.  201,  210;  the 
"  Bothie,"  202. 

Coaches,  ii.  200. 

Cock-crowing,  i.  73,  82,  98. 

Cocked  hats,  i.  132. 

Coincidence,  a,  ii.  350. 

Coleridge,  i.  79,  95,  375  ;  ii.  162  ;  his 
Lay-sermons,  25;  his  Odes,  191. 

Collins,  \Vilkie,  "  The  Moonstone," 
ii.  433. 

Columbus,  i.  83,  84. 

Colville,  Col.,  ii.  377. 

Comfort,  the  fortress  of  conserva 
tism,  ii.  133. 

Commemoration  Ode,  i.  267,  345  ;  ii. 
9,  251,  305,446  ;  emendations  to, 
i.  379;  a  criticism  of,  in  "Corn- 
hill,"  ii.  189;  autograph  from,  304; 
its  effect  on  Trevelyan,  306. 

Commercial  morality,  ii.  170. 

Communism,  ii.  209,  286,  399. 

Competence,  definition  of,  i.  276. 

Composition,  the  test  of  good  writ 
ing,  ii.  44;  dependent  upon  moods, 
148.  See  also  Poetical  composi 
tion. 


446 


INDEX 


Concord,  Lowell's  life  in,  i.  27,  29  ; 
lectures  in,  36  ;  ode  read  at,  1875, 
ii.  150,  190. 

Confidences,  i.  139. 

Congress,  the  weak  point  in  Ameri 
can  politics,  ii.  175. 

Conscience,  origin  of,  ii.  168. 

Consistency,  epigram  on,  i.  43. 

Consolation,  i.  176,  327  ;  ii.  83,  197. 

Constantinople,  ii.  221. 

Continuity,  ii.  152. 

Contour,  i.  247. 

Convalescence,  ii.  437. 

Conventions  and  shams,  ii.  96. 

Conventions,  Political,  ii.  288. 

Conversations  on  Some  of  the  Old 
Poets,  i.  55,  63,  66,  84,  86  ;  ii. 
138- 

Cooks,  ii.  23. 

Copyright,  international,  advantages 
of,  i.  76  ;  ii.  265  ;  letter  in  "  Kate 
Field's  Washington,"  406. 

Corneille,  ii.  46. 

Corn  hill  Magazine,  ii.  73. 

Cornwall,  ii.  448. 

Cortona,  ii.  263. 

Country,  advantage  of  visits  to,  i. 
163. 

Courier,  i.  92,  114,  115,  119,  129. 

Coursal,  i.  343. 

Courtesy  in  a  democracy,  ii.  91. 

Cowley,  Abraham,  ii.  189. 

Cowper,  i.  17  ;  ii.  25,  47. 

Cox,  J.  D.,ii.  57. 

Crabbe,  ii.  166,  184. 

Cranch,  C.  P.,  i.  247. 

Crayon,  The,  i.  217,  222,  223,  229, 
243,  256. 

Crebillon  fils,  ii.  44. 

Credidimus  Jovem  Regnare,  ii.  322. 

Credit  system  abhorred  by  Nature, 
i.  165. 

Creditors,  i.  151. 

Creeds,  ii.  168. 

Crevecceur,  "  Letters  of  an  Ameri 
can  Farmer,"  ii.  30. 

Crickets,  the  words  of  their  tune  at 
night,  i.  391 ;  heard  at  night,  ii. 
412,415. 

Christina,  Queen,  her  death,  ii.  228. 

Criticism,  i.  357  ;   ii.  8,  17,  62,  166, 

275  ;  deals  with  externals  only,  i. 

101  ;  benefits  of  adverse  criticism, 

200  ;  not  to  be  feared,  ii.  80. 

Cromwell,  i.  31. 


upids,  i.  265. 

Curtis,  G.  W.,  i.  199,  203,  210,  334  ; 
his  "Chateaux,"  and  "  Potiphar 
Papers,"  211  ;  Howells's  article 
on,  404  ;  report  on  the  Civil  Ser 
vice  in  1871,  ii.  78. 

Curtis,  Justice,  i.  278. 

Gushing,  Caleb,  i.  285. 

Cutler,  Prof.  E.  J.,  ii.  46,  52. 

Cutting  eye-teeth,  i.  151. 

Dabney,  Mr.,  ii.  209. 

Damnation  a  spiritual  state,  ii.  165. 

Dana,  Miss,  ii.  223. 

Dana,  Richard  H.,  his  death,  ii.  265; 
his  character,  266,  432  ;  Adams's 
"  Life  of,"  432. 

Dane  Law  College,  i.  42. 

Dante,  i.  276,  390 ;  Longfellow's 
translation,  395  ;  article  on,  ii.  80, 
84,  138  ;  his  reality,  226  ;  quoted, 
251  ;  Dante  and  Milton,  386. 

Dante  Festival  of  1865,  i.  351. 

Darwin,  Charles,  sketch  of  his  life 
translated  into  Spanish  by  Lowell, 
ii.  230. 

Darwin,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  ii.  318. 

Darwin,  Mrs.  W.  E.,  Letters  to, 
1878,  ii.  229  ; — 1880,  247,  252  ; — 
1889,  283. 

Dasent's  "  Njal's  Saga,"  i.  312. 

Davis,  E.  M.,  imagined  meetings 
with,  i.  109. 

— ,  Letters  to,  1845,  i.  90; — 1846, 
107,  109; — 1850,  174. 

Davitt,  Michael,  ii.  294. 

Dead  House,  The,  i.  284. 

Dead  houses,  i.  197. 

Deadheads,  i.  219. 

Death,  i.  205,  327  ;  ii.  197,  267,  427  ; 
an  angel  of  God,  i.  78  ;  poem  on, 
80  ;  Nature  takes  no  notice  of,  81  ; 
the  shocks  connected  with,  176  ;  its 
lessons  to  be  learned  alone,  177. 

Deaths  of  old  friends,  ii.  126. 

Debt,  i.  151. 

"Deirdre,"  ii.  183. 

Demi-monde,  i.  365. 

Democracy,  the  strength  of  Amer 
ica,  i.  361  ;  confidence  in,  ii.  34, 
51  ;  its  estimates  of  men,  90^ 
importance  of  manners  in,  91  ; 
lack  of  leisure  under,  113  ;  its  pos 
sible  failure,  159  ;  the  result  of, 
173- 


INDEX 


447 


Democracy,  and  Other  Addresses,  ii. 
281,  309,  331. 

Democratic  Magazine,  i.  65. 

Democratic  party,  i.  188,  308,  336  ; 
ii.  71,  174. 

Democratic  Review,  i.  70,  71. 

Denys,  St.,i.  322. 

De  Quincey,  Thomas,  ii.  421. 

Despondency,  i.  153. 

De  Vere,  Aubrey,  ii.  258. 

Devil,  Latimer  on  his  activity,  i.  50. 

Dial,  inscription  for,  ii.  179. 

Dicey,  Edward,  ii.  68. 

Dickens,  Charles,  quality  of  his  hu 
mor,  i.  118  ;  character  of  his  work, 
211 ;  "Great  Expectations,"  312  ; 
his  readings,  400  ;  his  ' '  David  Cop- 
perfield,"  ii.  334  ;  also  77,  198. 

Dickinson,  Miss  Anna,  ii.  14,  15. 

Digby,  Lady  Venetia,  portrait  of,  i. 

235- 

Digby,  SirK.,  i.  389. 

Dinners,  public,  i.  341 ;  ii.  47. 

Discussion,  advice  in  regard  to,  i.  74  ; 
its  freedom  in  England,  ii.  60. 

Disestablishment,  ii.  43,  94. 

Disraeli,  Benjamin,  ii.  136,  222,  234. 

Divinity  School,  Lowell  thinks  of  en 
tering,  i.  31. 

"Dog  Talk,"  i.  298. 

Dogs,  ii.  101,  432. 

Dolliver,  Captain,  i.  293. 

Domenichino,  his  "Communion  of 
St.  Jerome,"  i.  264. 

Don  Quixote.     See  Cervantes. 

Donne,  John,  ii.  284,  325,  344,  384, 
428. 

Doves,  flight  of,  ii.  263. 

Drafts,  i.  150. 

Dreams,  i.  363  ;  ii.  97,  398  ;  dreams 
and  deeds,  147. 

Dred  Scott  decision,  i.  277. 

Dresden,  winter  in,  i.  240,  255,  257, 
263  ;  the  grosses  gehage,  249  ;  the 
theatre,  257  ;  recollections  of,  ii. 
77  ;  visit  to,  in  1881,  259. 

Dryden,  ii.  145. 

Dublin,  visit  to,  in  1872,  ii.  81. 

Ducking,  i.  162. 

Durer,  Albert,  i.  246. 

Dufferin,  Lord,  ii.  252,  298. 

Dukes,  ii.  89. 

Dulness,  ii.  50  ;  of  the  world  in  gen 
eral,  112. 

Du  Maurier,  ii.  281. 


Dunlap,   Miss    Frances,    afterwards 

Mrs.  Lowell,  i.  266. 
Duppa,  "  Papal  Subversion,"  ii.  29. 
Dying  Year,  TJie,  i.  36. 

Eastern  question,  ii.  234. 

Edinburgh  University,  tercentenary, 
ii.  278. 

Editor,  the  labors  of,  i.  286. 

Editors,  i.  383;  ii.  33,  121;  their  fut 
ure  state,  i.  184  ;  advantages  of  a 
pseudonym,  199. 

Education,  importance  of  observa 
tion  as  an  element  in,  i.  163  ;  to 
be  got  from  reading  rightly  pur 
sued,  ii.  39. 

Edwards,  Jonathan,  ii.  165. 

Eight-hour  agitation,  ii.  32. 

Electors,  presidential,  ii.  185. 

Eliot,  Pres.  C.  W.,  ii.  51,  369. 

Elliott,  Ebenezer,  i.  34. 

Elms,  i.  375  ;  ii.  59. 

Elmwood,  i.  76,  310;  ii.  2,  24,  in, 
143,  194,  288,  302,  389,  392,  442; 
view  from,  i.  130  ;  a  visit  to,  de 
scribed  in  verse,  154  ;  alarm  of 
fire  at,  ii.  21  ;  to  be  divided,  72  ; 
Mr.  Aldrich  a  tenant  of,  100  ;  its 
delightful  associations,  146 ;  the 
new  study,  172,  178,  183. 

Elmwood  Junior,  i.  82. 

Emancipation,  ii.  174. 

Ember  Picture,  An,  i.  392. 

Emerson,  R.  W.,  i.  27,  113  ;  ii.  91, 
93,  97,  144,  175  ;  his  slight  per 
ception  of  the  ludicrous,  i.  119; 
his  Phi  Beta  Kappa  oration,  393  ; 
men's  debt  to,  ii.  3 ;  and  Car- 
lyle,  272  ;  his  verse,  275,  292  ;  in 
old  age,  282  ;  letters,  and  poem  on 
Lowell's  fortieth  birthday,  327. 
,  Letter  to,  1868,  ii.  3. 


Endicotts,  the,  ii.  364. 

England,  political  condition  in  1838, 
i.  34  ;  the  sights  of,  269  ;  politi 
cal  speeches  in  1859,  293  ;  Ameri 
can  feeling  towards,  in  1863,  333; 
in  1865,  359;  in  1866,  361;  in 
1869,  ii.  26,  28,  40 ;  in  1871, 
70  ;  possibility  of  a  war  with,  in 
1865,  i.  343  ;  her  attitude  towards 
America,  360  ;  feeling  towards 
the  American  civil  war,  ii.  60  ; 
discussion  of  public  questions  in, 
60 ;  homesickness  in,  83 ;  love- 


448 


INDEX 


liness  of,  103,  317 ;  politics  in 
1874, 124  ;  in  1878,  234  ;  in  1884- 
86  (see  Gladstone)  ;  her  influence, 
244  ;  scandals  in,  325. 

English  and  Americans,  misunder 
standings  of,  ii.  102. 

English  character,  ii.  362,  377. 

English  Church,  i.  34  ;  ii.  94. 

English  climate,  ii.  273,  278. 

English  language,  Teutonic  and  Ro 
mance  roots,  ii.  67.  See  also  Amer 
icanisms  ;  Words. 

English  society,  ii.  377. 

Englishmen,  ii.  57  ;  in  America,  68 ; 
their  lack  of  tact,  362  ;  symbol  of 
their  faith,  375. 

Entail,  ii.  331. 

Enthusiasm,  i.  218,  279. 

Epigrams,  ii.  96. 

Episcopalianism,  ii.  148. 

Epithets  in  poetry,  i.  39. 

Equality,  ii.  399. 

Esau,  i.  41. 

/to/pest,  i.  361. 

Essay,  the,  proper  qualities  of,  i.  24. 

Europe,  trip  to,  projected,  i.  190  ; 
visit  to,  in  1876,  ii.  80  ;  strange 
ness  of  nature  in,  101. 

Evarts,  W.  M.,  ii.  194. 

Everett,  Edward,  i.  316. 

Evil,  the  unity  of,  no  excuse  for  let 
ting  it  alone,  i.  92. 

Evolution,  ii.  245. 

Executions,  i.  182. 

Experience  of  life,  ii.  144,  421. 

Eye-glasses,  ii.  162. 

Eyes,  ii.  432. 

Eyquem,  Michel,  ii.  52. 

Fable  for  Critics,  i.  119,  120,  122, 
124,  131,  136,  137,  142,  146,  221; 

ii-  334- 

Fact  or  Fancy?  ii.  322. 

Faliero,  the  Doge,  i.  180. 

Fall,  consequences  of  the,  i.  184. 

Fame,  i.  286  ;  ii.  75  ;  epigram  on, 
i.  44  ;  a  too  rapid  fame  harmful,  ii. 
86. 

Faneuil  Hall,  Boston,  ii.  305. 

Farragut,  i.  341. 

Fast-day  proclamations  and  celebra 
tions,  ii.  20. 

Fate,  i.  28  ;  ii.  75. 

Fatness,  odiousness  of,  ii.  162. 

Fauriel,  i.  394. 


Fearn,  Walker,  ii.  326. 

— ,  Letter  to,  1886,  ii.  325. 

Fenians,  i.  364. 

"Fergus,"  an   Arthurian  romance, 
ii.  85. 

Ferguson,  Professor,  ii.  354. 

Ferney,  ii.  52. 

Fetiches,  ii.  245. 

Field,  John  W.,  i.  339  ;  ii.  247  ;  in 
Madrid,  238  ;  in  Rome,  264. 

,  Letters  to,  1875,  ii.  143  5  — 

1878,  2085— 1882,  2665  — 1884, 
277,  288  ;—1885,  302  5—1886,  309. 

Field,  Miss  Kate,  Letter  to,  1890,  ii. 
406. 

Fielding,  i.  391  ;  quality  of  his  hu 
mor,  1 1 8. 

Fields,  James  T.,  ii.  4. 

,  Letters  to,  1849,  i.   166 ; — 

1855,  2335  —  1861,  3105  — 1862, 
319,  320,  321  ;—1863,  328,  333 ; 
—1864,  341  ;—1867,  386  ;— 1868, 
397,  399,  400,  4045  — ii.  135— 
1869,  17,  20,  22  5—1871,  71. 

Fields,  Mrs.  James  T.,  Letters  to, 
1889,  ii.  363,  365. 

Finnish  epics,  ii.  91. 

Fire,  alarm  of,  at  Elmwood,  ii.  21. 

First  Client,  The,  i.  166. 

First  Snow-Fall,  The,  i.  168. 

Fisk,  Jem,  ii.  74. 

Fitz-Adam's  Story,  i.  377  ;  ii.  II. 

Fitzgerald's  Correspondence,  ii.  385. 

Flax-cotton,  i.  192. 

Flies,  i.  345,  349. 

Florence,  i.  191  ;  winter  of  1873-74 
in,  ii.  113. 

Flying  Dutchman,  The,  i.  397  ;  ii.  ii. 

Fog,  i.  212 ;  ii.  359,  360,  448. 

Foolish  sayings,  i.  249. 

Foppishness,  ii.  162. 

Forbes,  John  M.,  ii.  61. 

Force,  its  Aveakness,  i.  91. 

Forster,  W.  E.,  Life  of,  ii.  356. 

Foster,  Stephen  S.,  i.  157. 

Fountain  of  Youth,  i.  171. 

Fountain's  Abbey,  i.  236. 

Fourierism,  i.  74. 

Fourth  of  July,  ii.  172. 

France  in  1869,  ii.  34  ;  politics  ii? 
1872,  87  ;  in  1873,  103  ;  in  1874, 
125;  \\\zRepublique,  96  5  expenses 
of  living  in,  103  ;  payment  of  the 
indemnity,  208. 

Franco-Prussian  war,  ii.  60,  62,  71. 


INDEX 


449 


Franklin,    inauguration    of    Green- 

ough's  statue  of,  i.  271. 
Frankness,  i.  97. 
Fraser,    Bishop,    Hughes's    life    of, 

"•  335- 
Free  trade  hopeless  in  America,  ii. 

175- 

Freedom,  i.  136,  293. 
Freedom,  of  body  and  mind,  both  to 

be  labored  for,  93  ;  the  subject  of 

Lowell's  poems,  172. 
Freeman,  Pennsylvania,  i.  56,  85,  92, 

108,  no. 

Fremont,  Gen.;  i.  337. 
French,  the,  character  of,  ii.  91,  104; 

Lowell's  feeling  towards,  95,  IOI  ; 

fond  of  animals,  199. 
French  art,  modern,  i.  235. 
French  language,  ii.  28. 
French  literature,  early,  i.  394. 
French  metrical  romances,  ii.  64. 
French  verse,  ii.  84. 
Fresh  Pond,  i.  113. 
Fresh  Pond  Lane,  i.  272. 
Friends,  choice  of,  i.  28  ;  imaginary 

visits  to,  109  ;  distant,  139;  love  of, 

276;  ii.  75. 

Friendship,    advantages    of    separa 
tion,  i.  127  ;  the  wine  of  life,  378  ; 

endures  silence  without  suspicion, 

ii.  69. 

Friendships,  old,  i.  347. 
Froissart,  ii.  83  ;  birthplace  of,  109. 
Frost  on  the  window,  i.  190. 
Froude,  J.  A.,  ii.  282,  311. 
Fuller,  Margaret,  attempts  at  face- 

tiousness,  i.  103  ;   character,  128  ; 

in  Fable  for  Critics,  131,  142. 
Fuller,  Thomas,  quoted,  i.  123. 
Funerals,  i.  176. 
Furnaces,  ii.  136. 
Furnivall,  F.  J.,  ii.  271. 

Galilee,  the   Misses,  of  Whitby,  ii. 

374- 

Gambetta,  Le'on,  ii.  208. 

Gamblers  seen  at  night,  i.  50. 

Garfield,  J.  A.,  ii.  252,  253,  259. 

Garin,  the  gifts  of  the  three  fairies  to, 
ii.  89. 

Garrison,  W.  L.,  i.  114  ;  his  charac 
ter,  125. 

Garrulousness,  ii.  139. 

Gauthier,  Theophile,  ii.  238. 

Gay,  John,  ii.  198. 
II.— 29 


Gay,  Sydney  Howard,  i.  57. 

,  Letters  to,  1846,  i.  in,  116  ; 


—1848,  123,  128,  129,  135,  136, 
137,  138,  141,  142,  143,  144,  147  ; 
—1849,  149,  153,  155,  161,  168  ;— 
1850,  175,  179,  182,  185  ;— 1851, 
188,  190  ;— 1856,  275  ;— 1865,  352. 

Gayangos,  ii.  212. 

Genealogy,  American  fondness  ior, 
ii.  41. 

Genius,  i.  38,  307  ;  ii.  280,  304,  432. 

Genoa,  i.  190. 

Gentility,  ii.  380. 

German  art  in  Nuremberg,  i.  263. 

German  inscriptions,  i.  250. 

German  language,  i.  241  ;  its  value 
and  importance,  ii.  146. 

German  literature,  study  of,  i.  253, 
257. 

German  newspapers,  advertisements 
in,  i.  251. 

German  theatre,  i.  257. 

Germans  and  French,  ii.  63. 

Ghost- Seer,  The,  i.  85. 

Ghost  of  one's  old  self,  ii.  279. 

Ghosts,  ii.  370,  371. 

Gilder,  R.  W.,  his  "  New  Day,"  ii. 

152,  431. 

,  Letters  to,  1875,  ii.  152  ;- 


1876,  183;— 1880,  248;  — 1881, 
253,  256,  257,  258,  261  ;  — 1882, 
265  ;— 1885,  296,  300  ;— 1886,  304, 
311,  321  ;— 1887,  333,  344  ;— 1888, 
346  ;— 1889,  372,  391  ;— 1890,  420, 

425- 
Gilder,  Mrs.  R.  W.,  Letter  to,  1891, 

ii.  431- 

Gildersleeve,  Professor,  ii.  193. 

Gilman,  President  D.  C.,  ii.  193. 

Giner  de  los  Rios,  ii.  223. 

Gladstone,  W.  E.,  ii.  281,  282  ;  and 
Ireland,  286,  361  ;  and  Egypt, 
287  ;  and  Home  Rule,  310,  313, 
314,  316,  338,  339  ;  epigram  on, 
315  ;  and  the  Coercion  bill,  335. 

Gobineau,  his  "La  Philosophic  et 
les  Religions  de  1'Asie  Centrale," 
ii.  79. 

God,  his  spirit  felt,  i.  69  ;  a  poet, 
384;  his  attitude  towards  men, 
ii.  51- 

Godkin,  E.  L.,  ii.  82,  221  ;  recep 
tion  at  Harvard  Commencement 
in  1869,  33.  See  also  "Nation." 

,  Letters  to,  1866,  i.  354,  355, 


45° 


INDEX 


368,  372;—1867,  382;— 1868,  ii.  3; 
—1869,  14,  15,  28,  48  ;— 1870,  54  ; 
—  1871,  76;— 1874,  133;  — 1891, 

430- 

Goethe,  i.  45,  295 ;  ii.  46  ;  his 
"  Fisher,"  i.  227  ;  his  imagina 
tion  and  common-sense,  374;  visit 
to  his  house  at  Weimar,  ii.  260. 

Gold,  its  noble  use,  i.  326. 

Gongora,  copy  of  his  poems,  on  vel 
lum,  ii.  212. 

Good  resolutions,  i.  16. 

Gordon,  General,  sends  regards  to 
Lowell  from  Khartoum,  ii.  287. 

Gore,  Gov. ,  ii.  20. 

Goschen  defeated  at  Edinburgh,  ii. 

3i5- 

Gothic  architecture,  ii.  220. 
Gout,  i.  282  ;  ii.  124,  127,  355,  436. 
Gower,  John,  i.  357. 
Gower,  Leveson,  visit  to,  ii.  251,  314. 
Grahamism,  i.  87. 
Graham 's   Magazine,  i.   64,  65,  70, 

IO2,    l8g,   212. 

Grail,  Holy,  ii.  54. 

Grandfathers,  ii.  152. 

Grant,  U.  S.,  i.  336,  ii.  27,  56;  as 
a  presidential  candidate,  7;  at  Ma 
drid,  232  ;  and  Sumner,  233. 

Gratitude,  i.  299. 

Gray,  Thomas,  ii.  44,  86 ;  odes  of, 
191. 

Greece,  its  history,  ii.  135  ;  visit  to, 
in  1878,  219. 

Greek  art  as  seen  in  the  Naples 
Museum,  ii.  119. 

Greek  grammar,  ii.  418. 

Greek  pronunciation,  ii.  420. 

Green,   Mrs.,  her  "Henry  II.,"  ii. 

359- 
Greenough's  statue  of    Franklin,  i. 

271. 

Greenwood  Cemetery,  i.  88. 
Grolier  club,  ii.  418. 
Grote,    George,    his     "  History    of 

Greece,"  ii.  134. 
Grub  Street,  ii.  325. 
Guizot,  M.,  ii.  426. 
Gurney,  E.  W.,  i.  388. 
Gymnastic  exercise,  i.  146. 

Hale,  Edward  E.,  i.  334- 

,  Letter  to,  1890,  ii.  426. 

Hale,  Nathan,  Jr.,  i.  63,  n.;  ii.  136. 
Hamon,  French  painter,  i.  236. 


Hanging,  puns  on,  i.  183. 

Happiness,  expression  of,  in  poetry, 
i.  45  ;  other  expressions  of,  ii. 
172  ;  better  things  than,  362  ; 
also,  i.  349  ;  ii.  398. 

Harper  s  Weekly,  i.  287. 

Hartzenbusch,  his  notes  on  "Don 
Quixote,"  ii.  212,  215. 

Harvard  Advocate,  ii.  180. 

Harvard  College,  Freshmen  and  Sen 
iors,  i.  21  ;  Lowell  on  his  college 
life,  27  ;  the  pursuit  of  truth  in, 
29  ;  the  library,  77  ;  Lowell  ap 
pointed  professor,  223  ;  the  Har 
vard-Oxford  race  in  1869,  ii.  40  ; 
the  Commencement  dinner,  143  ; 
the  triennial  catalogue,  196  ;  the 
library,  212,  215  ;  the  quinquen 
nial  catalogue,  274 ;  confers  LL.D. 
on  Lowell,  279  ;  Lowell's  25oth- 
anniversary  address,  321;  the  25Oth 
anniversary,  326  ;  Lowell  delegate 
of,  at  Bologna  University,  354. 

"  Harvard  Graduates,"  Sibley's,  ii. 
130. 

Harvardiana,  i.  20 ;  ii.  136. 

Hats,  beaver,  i.  321. 

Hawkins,  Sir  Richard,  i.  341. 

Hawthorne,  Nathaniel,  the  "  Mar 
ble  Faun,"  i.  302;  the  "Scarlet 
Letter,"  302  ;  his  death,  338  ;  pro 
posed  life  of,  by  Lowell,  368  ;  his 
genius,  405  ;  ii.  304  ;  Fields  on, 

,  Letter  to,  1860,  i.  305. 

Hayes,  R.  B.,  nomination  in  1876, 

ii.  173;  and  the  South,  187;  his 

appearance,  195. 
Hayes,  Mrs.  R.  B.,  ii.  195. 
Haying,  i.  162. 
Hayne,  Paul  H.,  ii.  16. 
Haze,  ii.  381.     See  also  Fog. 
Hazlitt,  ii.  166. 
Heat  of  summer,  i.  345. 
Hedge-birds,  ii.  133. 
Heine,  i.  338. 
Hens,  expedient  to  make  them  lay, 

ii.  25. 

Herbert,  Auberon,  ii.  315,  398. 
Herbert,  George,  i.  40;  ii.  191,  410. 
Hermits,  ii.  430. 
Higginson,  T.  W. ,  contributions  to 

the  "Atlantic  Monthly,"  i.  287. 
,   Letters  to,  1853,  i.   287;— 


1859,  298  j—1867,  379,  382.. 


INDEX 


451 


History,  its  value  in  a  course  of 
reading,  i.  91  ;  composition  of, 
ii.  222. 

Hoar,  Judge  E.  R.,  i.  404;  ii.  53, 
56. 

,  Letter  to,  1891,  ii.  435. 

Hogarth,  i.  257. 

Holbein,  i.  246. 

Holmes,  John,  i.  341,  346;  ii.  45, 
80,  98,  154,  176,  199;  dinner  to, 
in  1861,  i.  313. 

,  Letter  to,  1856,  i.  250. 

Holmes,  O.  W.,  i.  144;  ii.  13,  141, 
301,  308,  369;  his  "Autocrat," 
i.  288  ;  poem  at  dinner  to  Prince 
Jerome  Napoleon,  316  ;  his  "  Em 
erson,"  ii.  291  ;  in  England,  314. 

— ,   Letters  to,  1858,   i.   288;— 
1884,  ii.  291. 

Holmes  house,  ii.  277. 

Home,  delights  of,  i.  14. 

Homes,  characteristic  of  their  own 
ers,  i.  284. 

Home  Rule,  1886,  ii.  310,  313,  314, 
315,  316.  See  also  Gladstone,  W. 
E.  ;  Irish  question  ;  McCarthy, 
Justin  ;  Parnell,  C.  S. 

Homesickness,  ii.  252. 

Horace,  i.  377  ;  ii.  162. 

Horse-chestnuts,  ii.  146. 

Hosmer,  Dr.,  ii.  195. 

Hospitality,  Bostonian,  ii.  163. 

Houses,  should  be  destroyed  when 
their  owners  have  left  them,  i. 
197 ;  change  of  occupants,  284. 

Howe,  Dr.  Estes,  i.  313. 

— ,  Letters  to,  1858,  i.  254,  261. 

Howe,  Mrs.  Estes,  Letters  to,  1858, 
i.  258,  263. 

Howell,  James,  ii.  44  ;  his  letters, 
340. 

Howells,  W.  D.,  advice  to,  i.  305  ; 
letter  of  introduction  to  Haw 
thorne,  305  ;  his  "  Pilot's  Story," 
306 ;  article  on  Recent  Italian 
Comedy,  338  ;  Venetian  letters, 
338;  articles  in  the  "Nation," 
35°,  355  I  article  on  Curtis,  404  ; 
his  "  Gnadenhiitten,  ii.  13;  his 
"  My  Doorstep  Acquaintance,"  32; 
the  ideal  element  in,  44  ;  new 
house  in  Cambridge,  101  ;  his 
"Lady  of  the  Aroostook,"  240; 
his  work,  241  ;  his  stories,  243  ;  a 
professorship  of  literature  offered 


to,  269;  his  "  Silas  Lapham,"  297  ; 
"The  Minister's  Charge,"  306; 
and  the  Chicago  anarchists,  394  ; 
"A  Hazard  of  New  Fortunes," 
399  ;  his  sketch  of  Lowell  in  the 
"  Editor's  Study,"  435. 

-,  Letters  to,  I860,  i.  305,  306  ; 


—1864,  338  ;— 1865,  350  ;— 1868, 
403  ;— 1869,  ii.  16,  32,  34,  35,  43  ; 
—  1870,  58;  — 1874,  12 1 ;  — 1875, 
137  ;— 1876,  179  ;— 1879,  239  ;— 
1882,  268;— 1885,  296,  297;— 1886, 
306,  307,  319  j—1890,  394  ;— 1891, 

435- 

Hughes,  Thomas,  "  Tom  Brown, "i. 
298  ;  his  portrait  desired,  301  ; 
visit  in  Cambridge,  ii.  63  ;  regret 
at  his  departure,  67  ;  his  "  Me 
moir  of  a  Brother,"  92  ;  attitude 
towards  disestablishment  and  co 
operation,  94  ;  not  returned  to  Par 
liament  in  1874,  124  ;  his  "  Life 
of  Fraser,"  335. 

,  Letters  to,  1859,  i.  295  ; — 


1860,  299  ;— 1863,  332  ;— 1869,  ii. 
40  ;— 1870,  58,  59,  61,  67,  69  ;— 
1873,  92,  102,  no; — 1874,  123, 
128  ;— 1875,  134  ;— 1876,  173  ;— 
1877,  197;— 1878,  233;—1884,  282; 
—1887,  329,  335  ;— 1889,  379J— 
1890,  397,  417  ;— 1891,  434- 

Hugo,  Victor,  ii.  47. 

Hull,  Isaac,  at  Faneuil  Hall,  Bos 
ton,  ii.  305. 

Hull,  visit  to,  in  1859,  i.  291. 

Human  nature,  the  light  and  the 
dark  sides,  i.  159. 

Humanity,  ii.  14. 

Humor,  character  of,  i.  118  ;  by  con 
tract,  189. 

Hungarian  question,  i.  173. 

Hungarian  revolution,  letter  to  the 
"  Advertiser"  on,  i.  189. 

Hunkers,  i.  188. 

Hunt,  Holman,  his  "  Claudio  and 
Isabella,"  i.  248. 

Hunt,  Leigh,  i.  237,  317. 

Hyde  Park,  London,  ii.  198. 

Hydrangea,  ii.  420. 

Hypochondria,  i.  350. 

Ice,  its  color,  i.  94. 
Ice-cutting,  i.  95.' 
Icelanders,  i.  312. 
Ill-luck,  i.  295. 


452 


INDEX 


Imaginary  Conversation,  An,  i.  134. 

Imagination,  i.  374  ;  ii.  122,  433. 

Immortality,  ii.  207,  267,  309.  See 
also  Death. 

Inconsistency,  ii.  35. 

Indexing,  i.  142. 

Indolence.      See  Laziness. 

Ink,  ii.  44. 

Inns,  German,  i.  251. 

Inspiration,  i.  218. 

Inspiration  and  enthusiasm  distin 
guished,  i.  47. 

Instinct,  ii.  15. 

Intuitions,  ii.  168,  185. 

Invention,  i.  376. 

Invita  Minerva,  i.  229. 

Ireland,  and  Parnell,  ii.  430.  See 
also  Home  Rule. 

Irene,  i.  61. 

Irish,  the,  in  American  politics,  ii. 
71,  177,  361;  dislike  Lowell  as 
minister,  273. 

Irish  land  question,  ii.  43,  60. 

Irish  question,  ii.  434.  Sec  also 
Home  Rule. 

Irish  "suspects,"  ii.  293. 

Iritis,  i.  283. 

Irving,  Henry,  his  "  Faust,"  ii.  310. 

Irving,  Washington,  on  the  copyright 
law,  ii.  407. 

Isles  of  Shoals,  i.  219. 

Italian  language,  plans  for  learning, 
i.  191. 

Italy,  the  longing  for,  i.  249,  253, 
256  ;  visit  to,  in  1856,  258  ;  the 
changes  in  modern,  ii.  120  ;  im 
pression  of,  260. 

Jackson,  Francis,  i.  129. 

James,  Henry,  ii.  243,  377. 

James,  William,  ii.  371. 

Jebb,  Professor,  ii.  220. 

Jerome  Napoleon,  Prince,  dinner 
with,  i.  316. 

Jewett,  Miss,  ii.  365. 

Jews,  ii.  208,  234,  449. 

Johnson,  President  Andrew,  his  as 
pirations  for  a  second  term,  i.  362  ; 
his  character,  368,  370,  385  ;  ii. 

7- 

Johnson,  Reverdy,  ii.  26. 
Johnson,  Dr.  Samuel,  i.  239. 
Jones,  Senator,  ii.  407. 
Journal  writing,  i.  19. 
Journalism,  modern,  i.  369. 


Joy  and  sorrow,  i.  235. 

Joyce,  R.  D.,  his  "  Deirdre,"  ii.  183. 

Judd,  Sylvester,  his  "Margaret,"  i. 

106. 
June  Idyl.    See  Under  the  Willows. 

Kalewala,  ii.  91. 

Kansas  in  1856,  i.  261. 

Keats,  i.  79,  138  ;  ii.  422. 

Kelts,  i.  394. 

Kemble,  John,  ii.  49,  55. 

Kentucky,  attempted  neutrality  of, 

ii.  43. 

Kettleo-Pottomachia,  i.  354. 
Kicks,  symbolical  and  actual,  i.  180. 
King,  John,  i.  63. 
King,  Wilson,  ii.  281. 
Kingsley,  Charles,  ii.  82. 
Kipling,  Rudyard,  ii.  401. 
Knickerbocker  Magazine,  i.   38,  46, 

53- 

Knowledge,  value  of,  in  company,  i. 
163  ;  difficulty  of  attaining,  304. 

Labiche,  Eugene,  the  comedies  of,  ii. 
356. 

Lafarge,  John,  i.  383. 

Lago  Maggiore,  ii.  423. 

La  Granja,  journey  to,  ii.  200,  2OI. 

Lamar,  L.  Q.  C.,  ii.  183. 

Lamb,  Charles,  ii.  44,  316  ;  sonnet 
on  visiting  Oxford,  93  ;  his  favor 
ites,  340. 

Land,  selling  of,  ii.  72. 

Landor,  W.  S. ,  i.  357  ;  his  letters  to 
Miss  Mary  Boyle,  ii.  312,  322,  346. 

Lane,  Professor  G.  M.,  ii.  45. 

Latimer,  use  of  in  by,  ii.  307. 

Laurel,  i.  392. 

Law  School,  Lowell's  life  in,  i.  59  ; 
law  studies,  14,  32,36, 42, 46,48, 62. 

Lawrence,  Miss,  Letter  to,  1886,  ii. 

324- 
Lawrence,  The   Misses,  Letters  to, 

1886,  ii.    303;— 1888,   347;— 1880, 

387  ;— 1890,   392,  403,  410,  422, 

427. 

Lawrence,  Abbott,  i.  150. 
Lawson,  Mr.,  ii.  60. 
Lawyers,  Crevecosur  on,  ii.  31. 
Layard,  Sir  A.  H.,  ii.  222. 
Laziness,  i.  42,  81,  203. 
Leaves,  ii.  98. 

Leaves  from  my  Jottrnal,  i.  212. 
Lecturers,  itinerant,  ii.  253. 


INDEX 


453 


Lectures,  i.  294. 

Lecturing,  i.  36,  224  ;  ii.  61,  141. 

Leifs  Voyage,  i.  171,  312. 

Leisure,  the  fertilizer  of  the  mind, 
ii.  75  ;  the  need  of,  112. 

Lessing,  his  temperament,  i.  349. 

Lethe,  i.  218. 

Letter-writing,  i.  70,  104,  107,  139, 
181,  196,  244,  280,  299  ;  ii.  24,  76, 
100,  141,  186,  239,  346,  367,  383, 

385. 

Letters,  i.  139  ;  ii.  367,  432  ;  unan 
swered,  i.  150,  151. 

Liberator,  i.  92,  213. 

liberty  Bell,  i.  145. 

Liberty  Party,  i.  74. 

Libraries,  the  resources  of,  ii.  112. 

Life,  influence  of  circumstance  upon, 
i.  48  ;  the  true  struggle  of,  65  ;  its 
satisfactions,  ii.  143  ;  how  to  make 
it  bearable,  244  ;  worth  living,  245 ; 
best  half  of,  400. 

Lincoln,  Abraham,  in  the  Commemo 
ration  Ode,  ii.  305. 

Lincoln,  Solomon,  i.  333. 

Literary  life,  its  attractions,  i.  46  ; 
ii.  209,  269. 

Literature,  Genius  of,  as  portrayed 
on  the  cover  of  the  "  Boston  Mis 
cellany,  "i.  63;  the  power  to  please, 
ii.  50. 

Littre,  i.  394. 

London,  visit  to,  in  1855,  i.  234  ;  the 
Mitre  Tavern,  239  ;  tke  author's 
fondness  for,  ii.  316  ;  the  climate, 
338  ;  also  198,  271,  273,  427. 

London  Daily  News,  i.  108. 

London  Times,  i.  293. 

Loneliness,  i.  218. 

Longfellow,  Ernest,  ii.  209. 

Longfellow,  H.  W.,  i.  223,  229;  ii. 
41  ;  his  "  Rain  in  Summer,"  i.  96  ; 
his  "  Arsenal  at  Springfield,"  97  ; 
in  Fable  for  Critics,  131;  admira 
tion  for,  in  England,  240 ;  the 
"  Wayside  Inn,"  334  ;  his  trans 
lation  of  Dante,  395  ;  his  "  Evan- 
geline,"  402  ;  visit  to  England  in 
1868,  402  ;  Howells's  review  of,  ii. 
14 ;  his  poems  and  their  popular 
ity,  164  ;  elected  a  foreign  member 
of  the  Real  Academia  Espanola, 
203  ;  the  diploma,  209  ;  his  "  Ul 
tima  Thule,"  251. 

,  Letters  to,  1815,  i.  95 ; — 1856, 


267;— 1866,  367;— 1867,  378;— 
1868,  402  ;— 1876,  ii.  164  ;— 1877, 
203  ;— 1878,  209  ;— 1880,  251. 

Longfellow,  Birthday  Lines  to,  i.  378. 

Longfellow,  Mrs.,  i.  98,  240. 

Lope  de  Vega,  on  the  sonnet,  ii.  36. 

Lord  Mayor's  Show,  ii.  283,  285. 

Loring,  Miss,  Letters  to,  1854,  i.  211, 
212  ; — 1855,  219,  240. 

Loring,  Charles  G. ,  i.  62. 

Loring,  G.  B.,  Letters  to,  1836,  i.  II  ; 
— 1837,  12,  14,  17,  18,  21  ; — 1838, 
27,  29,  30,  32,  33  ; — 1839,  35,  36, 
37,  38,  39,  42,  44,  46,  49,  51  ;— 
1840,  58,  59,  60 ;— 1811,  61  ;— 
1842,  64,  65,  66,  67,  69,  70  ;— 1843, 

71- 

Louis  Napoleon.    See  Napoleon  III. 
Love,  early,  i.  18,  20  ;  as  the  subject 

of  Lowell's  poems,  172  ;  not  to  be 

compelled  by  Duty,  196.     See  also 

Affection. 
Lovers,  ii.  152. 
Lowell,  Amory,  death    of,   ii.   115, 

126. 
Lowell,   Blanche,    i.   102,   107,  109, 

in. 
Lowell,  Dr.  Charles,  character,  i.  82, 

283. 
Lowell,    Mrs.    Charles,    Letter    to, 

1837,  i.  ii. 
Lowell,  Charles  R.,  i.  162. 

,  Letter  to,  1849,  i.  162. 


Lowell,  Mrs.  Charles  R.,  death  of, 
ii.  115. 

Lowell,  Mrs.  Frances  Dunlap,  i.  279; 
ii.  188,  210;  her  health,  95  ;  and 
the  mission  to  England,  247  ;  her 
health  improved,  249  ,  her  death, 

295. 

,  Letters  to,  1881,  ii.  259,  263, 

264. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  neglect  of 
college  studies  and  suspension,  i. 
26  ;  his  Class  Poem,  30  ;  hesitates 
between  law  and  business,  32,  36  ; 
degree  of  LL.B. ,  52  ;  engagement 
to  Miss  Maria  White,  52  ;  contri 
butions  to  "Knickerbocker  Mag 
azine"  and  "Southern  Literary 
Messenger, "53;  publishes^  Year's 
Life,  53;  starts  the  "Pioneer," 
54 ;  winter  of  1842-43  in  New 
York,  54  ;  a  second  volume  of 
Poems,  and  the  Conversations  on 


454 


INDEX 


Some  of  the  Old  Poets,  55  ;  con 
tributions  to  the  ' '  Freeman  "  and 
"Anti-Slavery  Standard,"  56,  57, 
in,  145,  156,  178,  188  ;  speech 
to  the  Cambridgeport  W.  T.  A. 
Society,  68  ;  marriage,  Si  ;  visit  to 
Europe  in  1851-52,^169,  190,  195  ; 
death  of  Mrs.  Lowell,  204  ;  lect 
ures,  204  ;  professorship  in  Har 
vard  University,  204, 223  ;  Western 
trip  in  1855,  224  ;  winter  in  Dres 
den,  1855-56,  240,  263  ;  visit  to 
Italy,  April,  1856,  258  ;  residence 
in  Professors'  Row,  269  ;  resigns 
the  editorship  of  the  "Atlantic," 
311  ;  trip  down  East  with  a  Con 
gressional  committee  in  1864,  340; 
visit  to  Europe  in  1872,  ii.  81  ; 
degree  of  D.C.L,  from  Oxford, 
93,  102,  108  ;  winter  in  Paris,  95  ; 
trouble  with  his  eyes,  95  ;  summer 
of  i873<in  Europe,  104,  108;  health 
in  1874,  127  ;  return  to  Elmwood, 
128  ;  studies  of  Old  French  and 
Old  English,  130  ;  illness  in  1875, 
148,  151  ;  pressed  to  be  a  candi 
date  for  Congress,  180,  181  ;  at 
Baltimore  in  1877,  192  ;  refuses 
the  post  of  Minister  at  Berlin  or 
Vienna,  194  ;  appointed  Minister 
to  Spain,  196  ;  in  London,  1877, 
198  ;  in  Paris,  1877,  198  ;  present 
ed  to  the  king  of  Spain,  201  ;  his 
duties  at  Madrid,  204,  212,  214, 
234  ;  European  travel,  216  ;  ap 
pointed  Minister  to  England,  246  ; 
in  Dresden,  259;  in  Venice,  261 ; 
in  Rome,  263  ;  at  Berkhampstead, 
270  ;  memories  of  his  early  life, 
279  ;  prospect  of  recall,  283  ;  his 
popularity  in  England,  285  ;  his 
attitude  towards  Ireland,  294  ;  re 
turn  to  America,  296  ;  at  South- 
borough,  300, 303;  in  London,  1886, 
309 ;  his  address  for  the  25oth  an 
niversary  of  the  foundation  of 
Harvard  University,  318  ;  in  Lon 
don,  1887,  337  ;  at  Whitby,  1887, 
340  ;  in  London,  1888,  353  ;  at 
Whitby,  in  August,  1888,  356  ;  in 
Washington,  363  ;  his  seventieth 
birthday,  365  ;  in  London  and  at 
Whitby,  1889,  373  ;  at  Elmwood, 
1889,  389  ;  illness,  395,  425,  436; 
the  approach  of  death,  396,  427, 


429 ;     Leslie    Stephen's    reminis 
cences  of,  440. 

Financial  matters,  i.  82,  84,  108, 
135,  137,  142,  150,  153,  167,  186, 
.  315,  352,  374;.  ii-  45,  49,  57,  62, 
72,  75,  88  ;  his  college  work,  i. 
273,  278  ;  ii.  46,  52,  64,  79,  136, 
r52,  153,  181  ;  professional  duties 
irksome,  i.  254,  266,  276,  278,  294, 
342,  350,  369,  370,  384,  395  ;  ii. 
4°,  52,  77,  79,  84,  114,  269;  his 
reading,  i.  339,  349,  366,  394  ;  ii. 
130,  243,  345,  378,  386,  421,  424, 
428,  433,  438,  443  ;  feeling  of  ad 
vancing  age,  75,  98,  no,  121,  151, 
215,  412  ;  feeling  of  youthfulness 
in  old  age,  347,  403,  417,  419, 
421,  424  ;  his  grandchildren,  327, 
330,  393,  4H,  4i8,  419,  424,  429, 
437- 

Natural  affectionateness,  i.  101; 
his  character  compounded  of  the 
mystic  and  the  humorist,  117  ;  his 
humor,  118  ;  reform  not  to  be  his 
sole  interest,  173  ;  despondency, 
ii.  50  ;  not  a  lazy  rhymer,  191  ; 
his  lack  of  method,  215  ;  his  in 
herited  indolence,  i.  102  ;  ii.  270, 
280  ;  his  simplicity,  449  ;  expres 
sions  of  confidence  in  his  own 
power,  i.  47,  60,  61,  65,  71,  101, 
118,  127,  146,  148,  167,  172,  203  ; 
criticism  on  his  poetry  superficial, 
100 ;  his  calling  clear,  104 ;  his 
poetry  a  true  record  and  expres 
sion  of  his  life,  107,  172  ;  poetry 
his  true  calling,  113  ;  estimate  of 
his  own  work,  356,  369,  376,  381, 
388,  398,  405  ;  ii.  3,  62,  118,  143, 
145,  250,  282,  324,  345,  347,  349, 
360 ;  his  style,  290  ;  the  collected 
edition  of  his  works,  434. 
Lowell,  Mabel  (Mrs.  Burnett),  i.  287; 

ii.  373- 

Lowell,  Mrs.  Maria  White,  her  po 
ems,  i.  203 ;  illness  and  death,  204, 
205  ;  also  ii.  421. 

Lowell,  Robert  T.  S.,  Letters  to, 
1827,  i.  5  ;— 1828,  6. 

Lowell,  Rose,  i.  169 ;  illness  and 
death,  176. 

Lowell,  Walter,  i.  169. 

Lowell  lectures,  i.  201,  204,  219,  220, 
222. 

Lucan,  ii.  333. 


INDEX 


455 


Lucretius,  i.  367. 

Luther,  i.  126. 

Lynch  law,  ii.  242. 

Lyons,   Lord,   and   the  arresting  of 

British  subjects,  ii.  293. 
Lytton,  i.  365. 

Macaulay,  articles  by  Stephen   and 

Morley  on,  ii.  170. 
MacVeaghs,  the,  ii.  369. 
McCarthy,    Justin,   on    Irish    "sus 
pects,"  ii.  294  ;  as  leader  of  the 

Irish  party,  430. 
McClellan,  i.  322. 
McCulloch,  ii.  365. 
McKim,  James  Miller,  i.  56. 
Madrid,  street-cries,  ii.  224 ;  the  city, 

226  ;  the  Campina,  237. 
Mahaffy,  Professor,  ii.  281. 
Majorities,  government  of,  ii.  336. 
Malet,  Dr.,  ii.  82. 
Manliness,  ii.  92. 
Mann,  Horace,  i.  187. 
Manners,  good,  ii.  244. 
Marlow  and  Chapman's  "  Hero  and 

Leander,"  ii.  345. 
Marsh,  George  P.,  i.  372. 
Marshes,  i.  281. 
Marvell,  Andrew,  i.  94. 
Masaccio,  i.  232. 

Mason  and  Slidell,  i.  319  ;  ii.  10. 
Massachusetts  Qtiarterly,  i.  124. 
Massachusetts    in   1856,   i.   261  ;    in 

1860,  309  ;  anti-Blaine  caucuses  in 

1876,  ii.  160. 

Massachusetts  snobbishness,  i.  212. 
Massinger,  i.  66. 
May-time  in  Cambridge,  i.  290. 
Mead,  Larkin  G.,  ii.  17,  122. 
Measures,  ii.  189. 

Meeting-house,  New  England,  i.  106. 
Meissonier's  pictures,  ii.  226. 
Melon-seeds,  ii.  25. 
Melville's  "Typee,"i.  141. 
Memling,  i.  245. 

Memoriae Positum  R.  G.  Shaw,  i.  333. 
Memories,  ii.  279. 
Memory,  delights  of,  i.   49  ;   failure 

of,  ii.  154. 

Mercedes,  Queen,  ii.  223. 
Meredith,  George,  ii.  358. 
Metre,  true  principles  of,  i.  38, 
Mexican  war,  i.  296. 
Mice,  ii.  393. 
Michel  Agnolo,  i.  243. 


Middleton,  i.  71. 

Mill,  John  Stuart,  ii.  97. 

Miller,  editor  of  the  "  Freeman,"  i. 
no. 

Milton,  John,  i.  41,  79  ;  ii.  64;  Mas- 
son's  Life  of,  ii.  76;  his  "  Samson 
Agonistes,"  190;  his  versification, 
386  ;  Lowell's  preface  to  the  "Are- 
opagitica,"  413,  418. 

Mind  and  body,  ii.  245. 

Ministry,  the  call  to,  i.  31. 

Minor,  John  B.,  ii.  4. 

Mirabeau,  ii.  319. 

Misfortufce,  ii.  89. 

Misprints,  ii.  134. 

Mitchell,  S.  Weir,  ii.  363,  364,  371  ; 
his  "  Dream  Song,"  372  ; 

,    Letters   to,    1889,    ii.    369, 


371 ;— 1890,  395,  416. 
Mitchell,   Mrs.  S.  Weir,  Letter  to, 

1889,  ii.  367. 
Modesty,  i.  334. 
Monadnock,  ii.  413. 
Money,  i.  31,  186  ;  its  use,  ii.  99. 
Montaigne,  ii.  98,  343  ;  his  essays, 

355  ;  petty  cares,  427. 
Montgomery  quoted,  i.  20. 
Montpensier,    Duke    of,    entertains 

Lowell,  ii.  202. 
Mood,  A,  ii.  12. 
Moon,  the,  in  winter,  ii.  328. 
Moon-clarities,  i.  375. 
Moon,  G.  W.,i.  372. 
Moore,  Mr.,  landlord  in  Trenton,  i. 

225. 
Moore,  Thomas,  and  Wrordsworth, 

ii.  346. 

Moosehead  Journal,  i.  2O2. 

Moral  nature,  ii.  14. 

Moralizing,  i.  348. 

Morley,  John,  ii.  286,  338,  339  ;  on 
Macaulay,  170. 

Moroni,  ii.  82. 

Mosquitoes,  ii.  411. 

Mothers  and  babies,  i.  357. 

Motley,  J.  L.,  ii.  12  ;  his  contribu 
tions  wanted  for  the  "North 
American  Review,"  i.  335. 

,  Letter  to,  1864,  i.  334. 

Mount  Auburn  Cemetery,  ii.  163. 

Mount  Vernon,  visit  to,  ii.  299. 

Mountain-climbing  by  spy-glass,  ii. 
in. 

Mountains,  i.  243. 

Musset,  A.  de,  ii.  84. 


45  6 


INDEX 


Mutual  admiration,  ii.  35. 
My  Appledore  Gallery,  i.  217. 
My  Study  Windows,  ii.  74. 
Mysticism,  in  Lowell's  character,  i. 
117. 

Naples,  i.  259;  in  1874,  ii.  117; 
changes  in,  120  ;  museum,  119. 

Napoleon  III.,  i.  300  ;  ii.  59,  60,  63, 
90. 

Narni,  bridge  of  Augustus  at,  i.  249. 

Nation,  The,  i.  350,  354,  368,  382  ; 
ii.  4,  13,  15,  16,  32,  33,  76,  134. 

Naturalized  citizens,  ii.  293: 

Nature,  familiarity  with,  i.  164 ;  the 
beauties  and  delights  of,  273  ;  its 
quiet  indifference,  363  ;  the  satis 
faction  of  sympathies  with,  366  ; 
human  life  and,  ii.  66  ;  compan 
ionship  of,  424. 

New  England,  i.  20,  348  ;  its  pro 
vincialism,  ii.  131  ;  Journal  of  a 
Virginian  travelling  in,  139 ;  qual 
ity  of  its  literature,  292. 

Newman,  Cardinal,  ii.  281,  415. 

Newport,  contrasted  with  Beverly,  i. 
216  ;  the  people  of,  ii.  59. 

Newspapers,  i.  314  ;  ii.  119. 

Newton,  Sir  Isaac,  ii.  410. 

New  Year's  day,  i.  326. 

New  York,  i.  77,  277. 

New  York  Ledger,  ii.  384. 

Niagara  Falls  in  winter,  i.  228. 

Night,  sounds  of,  i.  391. 

Nightcaps,  i.  363. 

Nightingale,  ii.  410.     See  also  Birds. 

Nightingale  in  the  Study,  i.  386,  390; 
ii.  149. 

Nippers,  ii.  162. 

"  Njal's  Saga,"  i.  312. 

Nocedal,  Senor,  ii.  231. 

Nom  de  guerre,  literary,  ii.  334. 

Nooning,  The,  i.  168,  171,  173,  201, 
372  J  ii.  12. 

Noise,  as  an  expression  of  happiness, 
ii.  172. 

Nordhoff,  Charles,  Letters  to,  1860, 
i.  307  ;— 1869,  ii.  53. 

Norris,  W.  E.,  ii.  433,  439. 

North  American  Review,  i.  123,  124, 
173,  267,  334,  341,  351,  357,  370, 
383  ;  ii.  12,  136,  138. 

Northcote,  Sir  Stafford,  and  Mr. 
Gladstone,  ii.  286. 

Northern  lights,  ii.  46. 


Northern  vegetation,  ii.  260. 
Norton,  C.  E.,  i.  351  ;  ii.  259,  400. 
•,  Letters  to,  1854,   i.  207  ; — 


1855,  234,  242;— 1856.  247,  248, 
253,  260,  272  ; — 1857,  276,  277, 
280  ;— 1858,  281,  283,  285  ;—1859, 
289,  291  ;— 1860,  303  ;— 1861,  312, 
317  ;— 1862,  323  ;— 1864,  339  ;— 
1885,  343,  344,  348,  349  ;— 1866, 
366,  370,  372,  373,  374;  — 1867, 
383,  384,  388,  393  ;— 1888,  ii.  i  ;— 
1869,  49;—1870,  62,  64;— 1871, 
74  ;— 1872,  84  ;— 1873,  87,  91,  97, 
108  ; — 1874,  114,  115,  121,  131  ; — 
1875,  144,  149;— 1876,  iSo;— 1877, 
192  ; — 1878,  213,  219,  232  ;— 1879, 
241 ; — 1880,  250  ; — 1883,  272,  274; 
—1884,  277,  279,  281,  286,  287  ;— 
1885,  295,  298,  299;— 1886,  308, 
315,  318,  319,  320,  323  ; — 188*7, 
327,  332,  334,  338,  3445—1888, 
344,  348,  349,  351,  352,  360;— 
1889,  364,  377,  385  ;— 1890,  412. 

Norton,  Miss  E.  G.,  Letters  to,  1888, 
ii-  356  ;— 1890,  414. 

Norton,  Miss  Grace,  Letters  to,  1872, 
ii.  8 1  ;— 1874,  113,  129  ;— 1877, 
195,  198  ; — 1878,  207,  224,  231  ; — 
1879,  236,  238,  243,  244,  245  ;— 
1885,  294,  302  ;— 1887,  328. 

Norton,  Miss  Jane,  her  death,  ii.  197. 
,  Letters  to,  1854,  i.  214; — 


1855,  223  ; — 1856,  262,  264,  269  ;- 
1857,  277  ;— 1858,  282,  286  ;— 1859, 
294  ;— 1860,  302  ;— 1861,  312,  314, 
318  ;— 1862,  326  j  —  1865,  345  ;— 
1867,  391  ;— 18S8,  404  ;— 1869,  ii. 
23,  36,  46  ;— 1870,  63  ;— 1871,  77  ; 
—1872,  79,  80,  83  ;— 1873,  90  ;— 
1874,  112,  117,  130  ; — 1876,  169, 
178,  181. 

Nose,  talking  through,  ii.  330. 

Notoriety,  ii.  145. 

Novel-writing,  i.  342. 

Novels,  ii.  439. 

Nurnberg,  i.  262. 

Oaks,  ii.  163. 

Obituaries,  i.  320. 

Oblivion,  i.  244. 

Observation,  importance  of,  in  edu 
cation,  i.  163  ;  the  faculty  of,  how 
trained,  164. 

O'Connell,  Maurice  John,  i.  238. 

Ode  read  at  Concord-,  ii.  150,  190. 


INDEX 


457 


Odes,  ii.  172,  191. 

CEdipus,  ii.  22. 

Ogu'r  I  Ardcnois,  ii.  56. 

Old  Style  calendar,  its  advantage,  i. 

399- 

Olivares,  Conde-duque  de,  ii.  212. 
Omnibus  in  Brooklyn  described,  i. 

87- 

Omniscience,  dangers  of,  i.  383. 
On  the  Capture  of  Fugitive   Slaves 

near  Washington,  i.  92. 
Opinion,  i.  44  ;  public,  201  ;  ii.  90, 

145- 

O'Reilly,  John  Boyle,  and  Irish  "  sus 
pects,"  ii.  293. 

Oriental  blood,  ii.  401. 

Originality,  i.  242,  247  ;  ii.  9,  173. 

Orioles,  nest-building,  i.  383,  ii.  406. 

Orrery,  Earl  of,  ii.  312. 

Osuna,  Duke  of,  ii.  238. 

Our  Own,  i.  199. 

Owl,  ii.  415. 

Ownership,  i.  281. 

Oxen,  i.  96. 

Oxford  University,  its  honorary  de 
gree,  ii.  93  ;  the  degree  conferred, 
101,  102,  108. 

Page,  William,  the  painter,  i.  54,  127, 
253,  259;  ii.  77,  334;  his  judgment 
of  Lowell's  poems,  i.  167  ;  meeting 
in  Florence,  195  ;  his  pictures,  274. 

Painters,  modern,  i.  247. 

Painting,  principles  of  criticism,  i. 
231  ;  modern -mediaeval  pictures, 
ii.  85  ;  the  early  painters,  113. 

Paintings,  i.  38. 

Palfrey,  J.  G.,  i.  188. 

Palmer,  G.  H.,  Letter  to,  1886,  ii. 
320. 

Parable,  A,  i.  144. 

Paris,  visit  to,  in  1855,  i.  234  ;  res 
taurants,  239  ;  visit  to,  in  1872,  ii. 
87  ;  no  place  for  poets,  88  ;  winter 
in,  102  ;  life  in,  199. 

Parker,  Friend,  i.  no. 

Parker,  Theodore,  i.  125. 

Parkman,  Francis,  ii.  80  ;  Lowell's 
essay  on,  421,  425. 

Parnell,  C.  S.,  ii.  294  ;  his  downfall, 
430. 

Parnell  commission,  ii.  361. 

Parsons,  T.  W. ,  his  translation  of 
Dante,  i.  402. 

' ,  Letter  to,  1868,  i.  401. 


Past,  the,  i.  205  ;  its  ties,  327.  See 
also  Associations. 

Patience,  importance  of,  i.  165. 

Patriotism,  ii.  159. 

Patronage,  ii.  242. 

Peabody,  Elizabeth  P.,  article  on 
Hawthorne,  i.  404. 

Peace,  i.  158. 

Peaches,  ii.  221. 

Pears,  i.  371. 

Pear-stealing,  ii.  101. 

Pennock,  Dr.  Liddon,  i.  no. 

Pennsylvania  Freeman.  See  Free 
man. 

Pentameters,  i.  318. 

Pepys  Memorial,  speeches  at  the  un 
veiling  of  the,  ii.  323. 

Percival,  J.  G.,  i.  373,  374. 

Pericles,  ii.  219. 

Perry,  T.  S.,  Letter  to,  1875,  ii.  136. 

Perseus,  statue  of,  ii.  53. 

Personal  liberty  bill,  i.  261. 

Pessimism,  ii.  236,  245. 

Petrarch,  ii.  218. 

Phi  Beta  Kappa  dinner,  i.  347,  387  ; 
poems,  ii.  211. 

Philadelphia,  ii.  368. 

Philalethes,  i.  395. 

Philistines,  ii.  352. 

Phillips,  Wendell,  i.  158. 

Philosophy,  clue  to  a  system  of,  i.  69; 
expressed  in  poetry,  73. 

Phoebe,  ii.  256,  261. 

Photographs,  ii.  94,  265. 

Piatt,  Mrs.  S.  M.,  i.  403. 

Pictures.      See  Painting. 

Pictures  from  Appledore,  i.  217  ;  ii. 
n. 

Picturesqueness,  i.  262. 

Pierce,  Franklin,  at  a  dinner  in  Bos 
ton,  i.  302. 

Pig,  roast,  i.  400  ;  ii.  18,  2O,  22,  45. 

Pillsbury,  Parker,  i.  157. 

Pindar,  i.  345  ;  ii.  190. 

Pine-trees,  i.  383  ;  ii.  146. 

Pioneer,  The,  i.  54,  71,  73,  82. 

Pious  Editor  s  Creed,  i.  128. 

Pizarro  and  the  Inca,  i.  164. 

Plagiarism,  i.  96,  131. 

Plainness  in  appearance,  ii.  94. 

Poe,  i.  85,  96,  102  ;  lacking  in  char 
acter,  99  ;  accuses  Lowell  of  pla 
giarism,  99. 

Poems  and  verses,  printed  in  these 
volumes  : — Letter  to  G.  B.  Loring, 


INDEX 


i.  21  ;  collection  of  epigrams  sent 
to  G.  B.  Loring,  42  ;  lines  for  a 
North  Carolina  friend  to  his  mis 
tress,  58  ;  lines  on  Nature  given 
free,  59  ;  lines  on  the  petty  strife 
of  life,  60  ;  on  Death,  80  ;  on  youth 
recalled,  140  ;  lines  to  Gay  on  a 
visit  to  Elmwood,  153  ;  lines  ad 
dressed  to  an  editor  who  accepted, 
but  underrated  the  author's  work, 
160  ;  letter  to  F.  G.  Shaw,  192  ; 
Ode  of  thanks  for  certain  cigars, 
207  ;  verses  for  a  lecture  by  T. 
Starr  King  in  California,  323  ; 

Sonnet  to ,  389  ;    invitation 

to  eat  roast  pig,  400  ;  Sonnet  to 
J.  T.  Fields,  inviting  him  to  eat 
roast  pig,  ii.  18  ;  Sonnet  to  Miss 
Norton,  imitated  from  Lope  de 
Vega,  36  ;  Sonnet,  after  Petrarch, 
37  ;  Sonnet  to  C.  E.  Norton,  88  ; 
verses  to  Mrs.  L.  A.  Stimson,  105; 
verses  on  deeds  and  dreams,  147  ; 
A  Dialogue,  on  Jones's  silver  mine, 
179;  Phcebe,  254;  verses  on  Cleve 
land,  391. 

Poems,  edition  of  1843,  i.  55,  78;  edi 
tion  of  1849,  167,  168  ;  of  1888, 

ii-  347- 

Poet,  his  great  office,  i.  104  ;  his  rep 
utation  small  in  his  own  genera 
tion,  113  ;  the  poverty  of  poets,  ii. 
74  ;  should  feed  on  poetry,  332  ; 
should  write  only  poetry,  346  ; 
his  heart,  358  ;  old  and  young 
poets,  388. 

Poetical  composition,  i.  342,  352, 
388;  ii.  64, 172,  188,  189,  250,  254, 
262,  263,  269,  322,  345,  346,  431  J 
the  danger  of  haste,  i.  365  ;  diffi 
culty  of  making  changes  after 
wards,  382  ;  uncertainties  of,  393  ; 
the  difference  between  the  dream 
ing  and  the  doing,  398  ;  language, 
ii.  9  ;  illustrated  by  the  Commemo 
ration  Ode,  10  ;  Euripides  on,  50  ; 
The  Cathedral,  65  ;  the  Elegy  on 
Agassiz,  1 1 6,  122. 

Poetical  temperament,  distrust  of,  i. 
366,  373- 

Poetry,  of  genius,  i.  18  ;  essay  on, 
read  at  an  A.  A.  <£.  meeting,  35  ; 
early  work  at,  37  ;  modern  cant 
about,  45  ;  a  medium  for  the  ex 
pression  of  philosophy,  73  ;  great 


poetry  a  support  in  sorrow,  79  ;  a 
true  communication  of  the  author 
contained  in,  107  ;  Lowell's  true 
vocation,  113  ;  importance  of  in 
dividuality  in,  202  ;  nature  of  a 
lyric  poem,  282;  pentameters,  318; 
its  sources  in  living  experience,  ii. 
142  ;  Oriental  poetry,  402.  See 
also  Metre. 

Poets  and  Poetry  of  the  West,  i.  306. 

Pompeii,  the  life  of,  as  seen  in  the 
Naples  Museum,  ii.  119. 

Pont  du  Gard,  ii.  405. 

Pope,  Alexander,  imagined  meeting 
with  Wordsworth,  i.  244. 

Popularity,  the  sweetness  of,  i.  210. 

Porter,  Dr.,  ii.  291. 

Portrait,  sitting  for,  poetical  epistle 
on,  i.  192. 

Possession,  ii.  344. 

Post,  Boston,  i.  36,  6l. 

Postal-cards,  ii.  374. 

Potter,  Paul,  i.  245. 

Poussin,  Nicolas,  i.  236. 

Power,  love  of,  i.  72. 

Praise,  i.  124,  401  ;  ii.  366. 

Preaching,  ii.  148. 

Preaching  and  looking,  i.  159. 

Prepositions,  society  for  the  preven 
tion  of  cruelty  to,  ii.  307. 

Presentations  at  court,  ii.  268. 

Pride,  i.  287. 

Print  and  manuscript,  ii.  261. 

Procrastination,  i.  107,  166. 

Professorship,  its  advantages  and  its 
limitations,  ii.  269. 

Progress,  shown  in  the  history  of  the 
world,  i.  91. 

Prometheus,  i.  71,  72. 

Property,  ii.  34 ;  the  fountain  of 
youth,  73. 

Prophet,  the  American,  i.  158. 

Prose  and  poetry,  ii.  346. 

Protoplasm,  ii.  245. 

Providence,  ii.  167. 

Prudence,  i.  374. 

Pseudonyms,  i.  199. 

Public  opinion,  i.  2OI  ;  ii.  90,  145. 

Public  speaking,  ii.  253,  323,  352, 
372. 

Public  spirit,  i.  307. 

Publishing,  i.  233. 

Puns :  on  hanging,  i.  1 83  ;  on  the  gout, 
283  ;  John  Holmes's  speech  at  the 
"  Agricultural  Festival,"  313. 


INDEX 


459 


Puseyite  Yankee,  the,  i.  106. 
Putnam.  George,  Letters  to,  1872,  ii. 

8?  ;_ 1874,  126  ;— 1877,  200,  204  ; 

—1878,  206,  208,  230  ;— 1879,  237; 

1884,  278  ;— 1885,  295. 
Putnam's  Magazine,  i.  199,  200,  203, 

210. 

Quakers,  i.  no. 

Quarles,  ii.  191. 

Quarterlies,  i.  335- 

Quebec,  ii.  61. 

Quill-pens,  i.  159. 

Quincy,  Edmund,  i.  157,  196;  ii.  144; 

his  death,  197. 
Quincy,  Josiah,  Letter  to,  1889,  ii. 

391- 

Radcliffe,  Mrs.,i.  355. 

Radicalism,  i.  72. 

Ragon,  Colonel,  i.  316. 

Rain,  ii.  308,  357,  378,  382  ;  Long 
fellow's  poem  on,  i.  95. 

Ramsay,  Professor,  ii.  354. 

Rawlins,  Mr.,  ii.  64. 

Reade's  novels,  ii.  438. 

Reading,  course  of,  advice  on,  i.  90; 
the  education  to  be  got  from,  ii. 
39  ;  the  great  readers,  154. 

Reason,  the  higher,  ii.  15. 

Receptions,  ii.  117. 

Reconstruction,  ii.  5. 

Refinement,  i.  351. 

Reform,  the  song  of  the  gospel  of,  i. 
104  ;  the  methods  of  Jesus,  159  ; 
not  to  be  the  exclusive  subject  of 
Lowell's  poems,  173. 

Reformers,  i.  126. 

Refrains,  i.  187. 

Reichenbach,  Dr.,  i.  240  ;  prepares 
for  a  court  ball,  254. 

Religion,  i.  40  ;  its  inner  life  pre 
cious,  79  ;  and  police,  ii.  127. 

Religious  beliefs,  ii.  167,  185,  245. 

Religious  impostors,  i.  117. 

Religious  press,  i.  288,  289. 

Rembrandt,  i.  50,  245,  257  ;  his  por 
traits  and  Jacob's  Dream,  234. 

Renan,  Ernest,  ii.  54  ;  his  influence 
over  Matthew  Arnold,  276. 

Reporters,  ii.  253, 

Representatives,  payment  of,  i.  94. 

Republican  party,  i.  308  ;  ii.  71,  77, 
161,  175. 

Repudiation,  ii.  34. 


Reputation,  i.  286  ;  drawbacks  of  a 

literary  reputation,  101. 
Reserve,  i.  81. 
Respect,  ii.  75. 
Respectability,  the  English  taste  for, 

i.  361. 

Returning  to  one's  country,  ii.  129. 
Reviewing,  ii.  76. 
Rhyme,  limitations  of,  i.  323. 
Rings,  in  American  politics,  ii.  27. 
Rivermouth,  ii.  48. 
Robins,  i.  290  ;  ii.  262,  384. 
Roebuck,  J.  A.,  i.  360. 
Rogers,  Samuel,  i.  15  ;  ii.  81. 
Roman  costumes,  ii.  264. 
Romance  literature,  lectures  on,  ii.  52. 
Rome,  i.  253  ;    murders  in,  ii.   30  ; 

visit   to,    1874,    117  ;    changes   in, 

123  ;  visit  to,  in  1881,  264. 
Rooks,  ii.  381.      See  also  Birds. 
Rossetti,  his  poetry,  i.  281  ;  a  picture 

by,  ii.  279. 
Roundheads,  i.  32. 
Rousseau,  painter,  i.  236. 
Rousseau,  J.  J.,  i.  385  ;  ii.  20,  424  ; 

his  followers,  47. 
Rowse,  S.  W.,  visit  to  England,  i. 

301,  346,  355  ;  ii.  7. 
Rubens,  i.  245. 
Ruskin,  i.  257,  391  ;  ii.  65  ;  a  good 

logician,  but  a  bad  reasoner,  i.  280. 

Sackville  incident,  ii.  361,  362. 

Sailing,  i.  292. 

St.  Andrew's,  rectorship  of,  ii.  274, 279. 

St.  Louis  Fair,  i.  354. 

Sales,  Francis,  i.  234  ;  ii.  88. 

Salons,  ii.  113. 

Samplers,  i.  292. 

Sand,  George,  ii.  47. 

Saturday  Club,  ii.  274. 

Scepticism  of  Montaigne  and  Browne, 

ii.  166. 

Schenck,  R.  C.,  ii.  70,  77. 
Schleswig-Holstein  question,  i.  335. 
"  Schmelzle's  Journey  to  Flatz,"  i. 

192. 
Schmidt,     Julian,     his     history     of 

French  literature,  i.  366. 
Schools,  common,  ii.  119. 
Schurz,  Carl,  his  opinion  of  William 

II.  of  Germany,  ii.  399. 
Science,  ii.  230. 

Scott,  Sir  W.,  i.  79;  his  diary,  ii.  433. 
Scottish  border,  sonnet  on,  ii.  137. 


460 


INDEX 


Scottish  dialect,  original  poem  in,  i, 

21. 

Sculpture,  modern -antique,  i.  357. 
Sea,  the,  i.  48  ;  ii.  376,  382  ;  view  of, 

from  Beverly,  i.  216. 
Seasons,  the  courses  of,  ii.  120. 
Sedgwick,  Miss,  Letters  to,  1887,  ii. 

341  ;— 1888,  359. 
Sedgwick,  Arthur,  i.  341. 
Seine,  steamer  trip  on,  ii.  98. 
Self-consciousness,  ii,  243. 
Self-knowledge,  ii.  62. 
Self-restraint  in  literature,  i.  243. 
Semmes,  ii.  7. 

Seneca,  his  "  Medea,"  ii.  332. 
Senior,  Mrs.,  her  death,  ii.  197. 
Sense  and  genius,  i.  307. 
Sentimentality,  i.  205. 
Servants,  i.  105  ;  ii.  99. 
Seward,  W.  H.,  i.  385,  386. 
Shackford,  W.  H.,  Letters  to,  1836, 

i.  8,  10  ; — 1837,  13,  19,  20. 
Shakespeare,  i.  73,  79,  133  ;  ii.  231  ; 

the    "Two   Noble    Kinsmen,"  i. 

300  ;  emendations  to  the  Sonnets, 

328  ;    his    "  Lover's    Complaint," 

332;  his  "Timon,"353. 
Shallowness,  concealed  by  borrowed 

ideas,  i.  29. 

Shams  and  conventions,  ii.  96. 
Shaw,  Francis  G. ,  Letter  to,  1851,  i. 

192. 
Shaw,  Mrs.  F.  G. ,  her  house  at  West 

Roxbury,  i.  197. 
,  Letters  to,  1849,  i.   167  ; — 

1853,  195  ;— 1863,  327  ;— 1891,  ii. 

433- 
Shaw,  Robert  Gould,  verses  to  the 

memory  of,  i.  333  ;  ii.  191  ;   death 

of,  i.  327. 

Sheep-shearing  in  Hull,  i.  291. 
Shelley,  Odes  of,  ii.  191. 
Shelter  Island,  i.  404. 
Sherman,  General,  i.  336. 
Sibley,  J.  L.,  ii.  82  ;   his  "  Harvard 

Graduates,"    130;    his   character, 

Sibyl.'i.  306. 

Sicily,  i.  259. 

Silence  of  the  woods,  i.  216. 

Silvela,  Senor,  ii.  202. 

Silver  bill,  ii.  209. 

Silver  money,  ii.  180. 

Silvester,  Professor,  ii.  193. 

Similes,  in  Tennyson's  "  Idyls,"  ii.  86. 


Sims,  kidnapping  of,  i.  192. 
Singer's  "Old  English  Poets," ii.  344. 
Sir  Launfal,  i.  123,  141,  144,  146, 

148,  387. 
Sixty,  i.  379. 

Skates,  C.  U.,  Letter  to,  1839,  i.  47. 
Skunks,  i.  153. 

Slam-seat  meeting-houses,  i.  106. 
Slavery,  denunciation  of,  i.  66  ;  a 
newspaper's  proper  attitude  tow 
ards,  86  ;  lines  on  the  fugitives 
taken  near  Washington,  92  ;  the 
one-sidedness  of  the  abolitionists 
defended,  93  ;  the  principle  per 
meates  modern  life,  105  ;  articles 
on,  in  the  "  London  Daily  News," 
108  ;  Lowell's  position  in  the  anti- 
slavery  ranks,  123  ;  the  Washing 
ton  fugitives  of  1848,  129  ;  runa 
way  slaves  who  want  to  buy  their 
wives,  151  ;  the  slaveholders  men 
and  brothers,  158  ;  the  Fugitive- 
slave  bill,  187  ;  depressing  effect 
on  Lowell,  188  ;  the  kidnapping 
of  Sims,  192  ;  rendition  of  Burns, 
212  ;  the  Bred  Scott  decision,  277; 
a  menace  to  American  institutions, 
296. 

Slaves,  runaway,  i.  151. 

Smith,  Alexander,  i.  210. 

Smith,  Goldwin,  i.  343. 

Smoking,  i.  48,  170  ;  ii.  397,  442. 

Smollett,  i.  391. 

Sneezing,  i.  103. 

Snobs,  ii.  248. 

Snow,  ii.  278,  329,  423. 

Socialism,  ii.  399. 

Society,  ii.  118. 

Socinianism,  i.  361. 

Socrates,  i.  182. 

Soldiers,  ii.  93. 

Solitude,  ii.  89,  142. 

Sonnet :  The  Scottish  Border,  ii.  137. 

Sonnets,  ii.  18,  88,  137  ;  experiments 
in  composition,  37. 

Sophocles,  ii.  50. 

Sorrows  of  youth,  i.  60. 

South,  Robert,  his  sermons,  ii.  428. 

South,  the,  feeling  towards  loyalists 
in  1866,  i.  362  ;  the  wise  attitude 
tov.-ards,  ii.  5  ;  relation  of  civil- 
service  reform  to,  133  ;  political 
condition  in  1876,  174  ;  the  cam 
paign  of  1876,  183  ;  the  election  of 
Mr.  Hayes,  187. 


INDEX 


46i 


Southern  Literary  Messenger,  i.  53, 
60. 

Several,  Viscount  de,  ii.  no. 

Spain,  the  climate,  ii.  216  ;  the  civil 
service,  242,  272. 

Spanish  Academy,  ii.  203,  209,  231. 

Spanish  character,  ii.  213,  214,  222, 
225,  235,  241,  246. 

Sparrows,  English,  ii.  404. 

Spectacles,  ii.  162. 

Speeches,  ii.  280. 

Spenser,  i.  79  ;  ii.  138,  140. 

Spiritualism,  objections  to,  i.  174  ; 
phenomena  of  table-tipping  hu 
morously  described,  198. 

Spirit-rapping,  i.  175. 

Spring,  i.  278  ;  in  New  England,  230 ; 
the  woods  and  birds  of,  232  ;  the 
slow  coming  of,  363  ;  delights  of, 
384  ;  in  France,  ii.  98  ;  in  Naples, 
117  ;  the  feeling  of,  in  one's  veins, 
163,  328. 

Spring  days,  i.  18  ;  ii.  168. 

"  Squyr  of  Lowe  Degree,"  ii.  132. 

Standard,  i.  57,  125,  142,  149  ;  Low 
ell's  contributions  to,  in,  134,  145, 
188,  189  ;  its  editing,  114;  Lowell 
to  write  once  in  two  weeks  instead 
of  every  week,  155  ;  his  previous 
relations  with  the  paper  unsatis 
factory,  156  ;  Lowell  offers  to  cease 
writing,  159  ;  Gay's  editing  com 
mended,  160,  178 ;  Lowell  sug 
gests  discontinuing  his  contribu 
tions,  178;  the  suggestion  accepted 
by  the  Antislavery  Society,  179  ; 
the  Society  desire  him  to  continue, 
182. 

Stanley  of  Alderley,  Lady,  ii.  339. 

State  trials,  i.  391  ;  ii.  443. 

Stedman,  E.  C.,  his  "  Alice  of  Mon- 
mouth,"  i.  356  ;  his  "  Alektryon," 
357  ;  his  "  Anonyma,"  365  ;  his 
"  Reconstruction  letter,"  376. 

— ,  Letters  to,  1866,  i.  356,  364, 

376. 

Stephen,  Leslie,  ii.  60  ;  his  "  Are  we 
Christians?"  96  ;  his  articles  "  In 
a  Library,"  125  ;  his  "Essays  on 
Free  Thinking,"  125,  127 ;  his 
"  Hours  in  a  Library,"  165  ;  his 
"  English  Thought  in  the  Eigh 
teenth  Century,"  166,  184,  401; 
on  Macaulay,  170;  the  "Diction 
ary  of  National  Biography,"  433. 


,  Letter  to  C.  E.  Norton,  1892, 

ii.  441. 

Letters  to,  1866,  i.   358  ;— 


1868,  ii.  5  ;— 1869,  25  ;— 1870,  56  ; 
—1871,  72;—1873,  95;— 1874,  124, 
127  ;— 1876,  161,  165,  184  ;— 1879, 
242  ;— 1888,  356;— 1890,  400;— 
1891,  438. 

Stephen,  Mrs.  Leslie,  Letters  to, 
1886,  ii.  308  ;— 1887,  340  ;— 1888, 
348,  357,  358  ;— 1889,  366,  375, 
381,  389  ;— 1890,  405,  419,  426  ; 
—1891,  432. 

Stevens,  Thaddeus,  i.  385. 

Stillman,  W.  J.,  i.  297,  301  ;  ii.  132; 
drawings,  i.  218,  220  ;  quality  of 
his  writing,  229  ;  criticism  of  one 
of  his  pictures,  230  ;  his  pictures, 
256;  article  for  the  "Atlantic," 
279. 
,  Letters  to,  1854,  i.  217; — 

1855,  220,  222,  228,  230,  243  ; — 

1856,  255  ;— 1857,  278,  279,  280. 
Stimson,  Mrs.  Lewis,  Letter  to,  1873, 

ii.  105. 

Stockbridge  in  1846,  i.  116. 

Stonehenge,  i.  236. 

Storm  of  April,  1851,  i.  191. 

Storey,  Charles,  i.  313,  404  ;  ii.  45. 

Story,  W.  W.,  i.  188,  238,  346,  347  ; 
ii.  117  ;  his  statue  of  Alcestis,  118; 
in  Rome,  264,  265. 

Street-cries,  ii.  224. 

Striving,  ii.  344. 

Studies  for  Two  Heads,  ii.  349. 

Study,  methods  of,  ii.  39. 

Success,  i.  217. 

Suicide,  i.  375. 

Summer,  the  heat  of,  i.  345  ;  pleas 
ures  of  a  cool  day  in,  348. 

Summer  weather,  ii.  61,  144. 

Sumner,  Charles,  i.  292,  368  ;  ii.  7, 
181  ;  his  oration  "On  the  True 
Grandeur  of  Nations,"  i.  97  ;  as 
sault  upon,  261  ;  speech  on  the  re 
jection  of  the  treaty  with  Great 
Britain,  ii.  26,  29,  41  ;  Grant's  re 
lations  with,  233  ;  his  belief  in 
himself,  306. 

Sun,  supposed  to  be  cooling,  ii.  182, 
183. 

Sun-dial,  inscription  for,  ii.  179. 

Sunset  at  Beverly  described,  i.  216  ; 
American  and  European  sunsets, 
270. 


462 


INDEX 


Sunshine,  ii.  426,  427,  429. 
Superiority,    the    consciousness    of 

painful,  i.  152. 
Superstition,  ii.  210. 
Swedenborg,  i.  195  ;  Page's  interes 

in,  274. 

Swift,  Jonathan,  i.  76,  21 1  ;  ii.  274. 
Swinburne,  i.  357,  365  ;  his  indecen 

cy  condemned,  377. 
Switzerland,  ii.  in,  433. 
Sympathy,  i.  328;  ii.  113. 
Symplegades,  ii.  221. 

Table-d'hote,  ii.  120. 

Tact,  ii.  362. 

Tailors,  i.  184. 

Taine,  ii.  76,  289. 

Talent,  useless  without  the  power  o: 

work,  i.  165. 
Tariff  bill,  1890,  ii.  417. 
Tavern  Club,  Lowell  entertained  by 

the,  ii.  366. 
Taxes,  ii.  45,  72. 
Taylor,  Jeremy,  ii.  325. 
Taylor,  Zachary,  President,  i.  143, 

157. 

Teaching,  ii.  269. 

Temperance  celebrations,  i.  67. 
Tempora  Mtitantur,  ii.  155. 

Tennyson,  i.  40,  79  ;  article  on  "  The 
Princess,"  124  ;  his  "  Maud,"  235  ; 
the  "  Idylls,"  ii.  85  ;  his  too  rapid 
fame,  86  ;  an  artist  in  words,  86. 

Terence,  ii.  428. 

Thackeray,  W.  M.,i.  211  ;  the  "  New- 
comes,"  238  ;  dinner  given  by, 
238  ;  estimate  of  Wordsworth,  ii. 
346. 

Thackeray,  Miss,  ii.  6. 

Thanksgiving  Day,  ii.  iio. 

Thayer,  James  B. ,  Letters  to,  1867, 
i.  395  •_ 1868,  ii.  8  ;— 1877,  188  ; 
—1883,  275. 

"  Thealma  and  Clearchus,"  ii.  345. 

Theatre  in  Dresden,  i.  257. 

Theocritus,  Stedman's  translation  of, 
i.  365,  373. 

Thiers,  Ad.,  ii.  87  ;  fall  of,  104. 

Thompson  Lot,  Marquess  of,  i.  313. 

Thompson,  James,  ii.  162,  180. 

Thoreau,  i.  27. 

Thought  and  thoughts,  i.  37. 

Threnodia,  i.  38. 

Ticknor  &  Fields,  i.  311. 

Tilton,  Mrs.,  ii.  140. 


Time  an  husbandman,  epigram  on, 

}'  43' 

Time,  writing  against,  i.  294  ;  meas 
ures  of,  358  ;  lack  of,  ii.  309  ;  his 
weaving,    341;    an   artificial   con 
trivance  to  divide  up  eternity,  390. 
Tintoretto,  his  "Annunciation,"  ii. 

109. 

Titian,   Page's  copies  of,   i.    195  ;  a 
portrait  in  the  Louvre,  234  ;   the 
"  Tribute-money,"  246  ;  his  "  As 
sumption,"  264. 
To  the  Future,  i.  100. 
To  Lamartine,  i.  137. 
To  a  Pine-tree,  i.  94. 
Tobacco,  ii.  230,  398;  ode  in  praise 
of,  i.  207.     See  also  Cigars,  Smok 
ing. 

Tolerance,  i.  157. 
Tories,  ii.  136. 
Toulouse,  ii.  216. 
Transition,  ages  of,  ii.  51. 
Travellers,  old,  ii.  243. 
Travelling,  ii.  104,  no,  299. 
Tree  blossoms,  ii.  144. 
Tree-planting,  ii.  101. 
Trees,    i.    164;    ii.    318,    328,    354; 
northern  and  southern,  i.  260;  in 
autumn,  315;  in  summer,  349;  loss 
of,  398;  their  feeling  in  spring,  ii. 
163. 

Trench,  Archbishop,  life  of,  ii.  356. 
Trenton,  visit  to,  in  winter,  i.  224  ; 
the  falls  seen  at   night,  227  ;   by 
daylight,  228. 
Trevelyan    on    the    Commemoration 

Ode,  ii.  306. 

Trinity  Church,  New  York,  i.  132. 
Trinity  College,  Dublin,  ii.  82. 
Trust  in  God,  i.  79. 
Truth,  vain  pursuit  of,  i.  29  ;   seen 

too  near,  322. 
Turks,  the,  ii.  221,  234. 
Turner,  i.  248. 
Tussaud,  Madame,  i.  183. 
Tweed,  W.  M.,  ii.  159. 
Typewriters,  ii.  374. 

Jbiquity,  imaginary,  i.  109. 

Jnattained,  The,  ii.  344. 

Under  the  Willows,  and  Other  Poems, 

i-  395>  398  ;   ii-  i,  ii  J  review  by 

J.  B.  Thayer,  8. 
Under  the  Old  Elm,  ii.  141,  150,  188, 

193- 


INDEX 


463 


Underwood,  F.  H.,  Letters  to,  1854, 
i.  212  ;— 1872,  ii.  79  ;— 1888,  360. 

Unitarianism,  ii.  117. 

United  States,  political  questions  and 
conditions,  in  1838,  i.  33,  35  ;  in 
1848,  143  ;  politics  in  1849,  the 
Dissolution  -  of  -  the  -  Union  move 
ment,  158  ;  in  1850,  the  election, 
181  ;  in  1854,  213  ;  in  1856,  261, 
275  ;  in  1860,  307  ;  in  1863,  333  ; 
in  1864,  336,  339  ;  in  1866,  362  ; 
in  1869,  the  rejection  of  the  treaty 
v/ith  England,  ii.  26  ;  the  feeling 
towards  England,  29,  40  ;  the  out 
look,  51  ;  in  1871,  feeling  towards 
England,  70  ;  in  1873,  93;  in  1876, 
political  and  moral  unsoundness, 
158,  161  ;  the  Cincinnati  conven 
tion,  171,  173  ;  the  campaign,  176, 
181,  182  ;  the  far-reaching  harm 
threatened  the  South,  183,  187;  in 
1883,  272,  274  ;  in  1884,  287  ;  in 

1891,  435- 

The  power  of  rings,  ii.  27  ; 
political  activity  of  the  Senate, 
i6i;tihe  Americanism  of  theWest, 
169  ;'  the  experiment  of  democ 
racy  in,  173,  287  ;  advantage  of  our 
political  system  of  States,  243  ;  fut 
ure  of  the  republic,  426.  See  also 
America  ;  American  ;  South,  the  ; 
West,  the  ;  New  England. 

Universalists,  ii.  348. 

Utica,  visit  to,  i.  224. 

Valera,  Juan,  seconds  the  nomina 
tion  of  Longfellow  for  member  of 
the  Real  Academia  Espanola,  ii. 
203. 

Vandyke,  portrait  of  Lady  Venetia 
Digby,  i.  235. 

Van  Eyck,  i.  245. 

Vanity,  the  writer's,  i.  35. 

Vaucluse,  ii.  217. 

Venice,  autumn  of  1873  in,  ii.  109  ; 
the  streets  of,  in  ;  visit  to,  in 
1881,  261  ;  the  doves,  263  ;  the 
city's  charm,  422. 

Verse,  ii.  308. 

Versification,  i.  121. 

Vining,  Mrs.,  i.  292. 

Virgil,  i.  396. 

Virginian  travelling  in  New  England, 
Journal  of  a,  ii.  139. 

Visions,  ii.  370. 


Voice,   sacred   memories   connected 

with,  i.  197. 
Voltaire,  ii.  25,  52. 
Voyage  to  Vinland,  i.  171  ;  ii.  2,  n. 

Waists,  the  loss  of,  bewailed,  ii.  162. 

Waldstein,  Max,  ii.  246. 

Wallace,  Teakle,  ii.  193. 

Walpole,  Horace,  ii.  166. 

Walton,  Izaak,  the  "Complete  An 
gler,"  ii.  345,  371,  373  ;  the  "  The- 
alma  and  Clearchus  "  attributed  to, 

345- 

War,  true  philosophy  of,  i.  300  ;  the 
true  feeling  towards,  344. 

War-ships,  i.  341. 

Ward,  Mr.  and  Mrs.,  ii.  364. 

Warner,  Mr.,  ii.  436. 

Washers  of  the  Shroud,  i.  317. 

Washing  day,  i.  363. 

Washington,  visit  to,  in  1870,  i.  56 ; 
society  of,  ii.  6. 

Washington  elm,  ii.  141. 

Water-cure  at  Brattleborough,  i.  95. 

WTealth,  the  appearance  of,  a  mis 
fortune,  i.  152. 

Weather,  uncertainty  of,  i.  385  ;  in 
terest  in,  ii.  147  ;  in  Boston  and  in 
London,  308. 

Webster,  Daniel,  i.  33,  187. 

Wedgwood's  Dictionary,  review  of 
i.  304. 

Weimar,  Goethe's  house  at,  ii.  260  ; 
character  of  the  place,  303. 

Wells,  Judge,  i.  198. 

Wesselhoeft,  Dr.,i.  95. 

West,  the  message  of  the  East  to,  i. 

325. 

West  Roxbury  Station,  i.  196. 

Westerners,  ii.  169,  248. 

What  Rabbi  Jehosha  said,  i.  354. 

Whigs,  i.  188. 

Whist  club,  ii.  131. 

Whistler,  ii.  320. 

Whitby,  ii.  340,  374. 

White,  Mr.,  of  Watertown,  i.  51. 

White,  Miss  L.  L.,  Letter  to,  1845, 
i.  86. 

White,  Maria,  knowledge  of  poetry, 
i.  51  ;  character,  53  ;  praise  of,  59  ; 
fills  his  ideal,  61  ;  presents  a  ban 
ner  to  a  temperance  society,  67  ; 
Joe  Bird's  praise  of,  68.  See  also 
Lowell,  Mrs.  M.  W. 

White,  Richard  Grant,  i.  288. 


464 


INDEX 


White,  W.  A.,  Letters  to,  1841,  i.  63; 
—1843,  74-  . 

Whitechokerism,  i.  361. 

Whitman,  Walt,  i.  242. 

Whittier,  i.  20,  404. 

Whittling,  ii.  85. 

Wickliffe,  Bob,  ii.  43. 

Wilbur,  Parson,  i.  297. 

Wild,  Hamilton,  ii.  12. 

Willard,    Sidney,    taught    Bancroft 

German,  ii.  365. 

William  II.,  of  Germany,  ii.  399. 
William,  factotum  at  Elmwood,  ii.  99. 
Willis,   N.   P.,  i.  77;  in  Fable  for 

Critics,  131. 
Willows,  to  be  cut  down  and  sold  for 

firewood,  i.  398. 
Wilson,  Henry,  ii.  31. 
Wilton  House,  i.  236. 
Winchester  Cathedral,  ii.  387. 
Wind,  i.  48. 
Windharp,  The,  i.  219. 
Winter,  Cambridge  scenes  in,  i.  281 ; 

ii.  53,  5°. 

Winter  evening  described,  i.  148. 
Winter  weather,  ii.  69,  78,  135,  188, 

329,  347- 

Winthrop,  R.  C.,  ii.  393. 

Wit  and  humor  distinguished,  i.  118. 

Without  and  Within,  ii.  236. 

Women,  social  stimulus  needed  by, 
ii.  112;  letters  from,  140;  happi 
ness  as  expressed  by,  172  ;  all  aris 
tocrats,  289  ;  also  247,  253,  303, 
304,  366,  373,  428. 

Woodberry,  George  E.,  n.  180. 

Wood-cutting,  Lowell's  early  at 
tempts  at,  i.  10. 

Wood-fires,  ii.  121. 

Woodpeckers,  ii.  335. 

Woods,  silence  of,  i.  216. 

Words— decuman,  ii.  55;  down-shod, 


ii.  66  ;  extend,  ii.  47  ;  in  and  into, 
ii.  307  ;  misgave,  ii.  66  ;  rote,  ii. 
65,  67;  transpire,  ii.  47;  virtus 
and  virtu,  ii.  93  ;  weariless,  ii.  9  ; 
whiff,  ii.  66,  67  ; 

Wordsworth,  i.  79,  367  ;  ii.  47,  191, 
264,  304,  377  ;  lines  from  a  poem 
compared  by  Poe  with  lines  of 
Lowell's,  i.  100  ;  imagined  meet 
ing  with  Pope  in  the  Fortunate 
Isles,  244;  his  "  Laodamia,"  396  ; 
his  early  unpopularity  and  later 
fame,  ii.  86  ;  Thackeray's  estimate 
of,  346  ;  the  "  Excursion,"  358. 

Wordsworth,  Essay  on,  ii.  146,  148. 

Work,  the  faculty  of,  i.  165. 

Workingmen's  college,  address  at, 
ii.  252. 

World,  the,  ii.  362. 

World's  Fair,  1876,  ii.  155. 

Worthy  Ditty,  A,  i.  356. 

Wright,  Henry  C.,  i.  15 7- 

Writing,  i.  131. 

Wyman,  Dr.  Morrill,  ii.  395,  414. 

Wyman,  Rufus,  i.  371. 

Yankee  in  literature,  i.  106. 
Yankeeisms,  i.  307  ;  ii.  55.      See  also 

Americanisms. 
Years  Life,  A,  i.  53,  60,  61,  98  ;  ii. 

138. 

Young,  Arthur,  ii.  43. 
Young,  Edward,  i.  335. 
Young  writers,  fault  of,  i.  37. 
Youth,  its   aspiration   and   sense  of 

power,  i.  139  ;    the  dreams  of,  ii. 

398. 
Youth  recalled,  lines  on,  i.  140. 

Youthfulness,  i.  117. 
Ypres,  ii.  108. 

Zoffany,  portraits  by,  i.  238. 


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